100 Themes Challenge: 100 Pairings
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: A hundred oneshots/drabbles about a hundred Hetalia pairings/friendships. *Theme#98: Complaints. Arthur and Ivan may be right for each other after all...*
1. First Impression

**A/N: So I am currently working on a 100 themes challenge written by Meriko-chan on deviantart. This was going to be a multi-chapter PruHun fic, but I've decided to make each chapter revolve around an entirely different pairing and theme!**

**So, here are the next 5 themes I will be working on. Please, pick a theme and pairing and post it in the review section.**

**1. Beautiful**

**2. Mock**

**3. Smile**

**4. Feather**

**5. Tease**

**Enjoy and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme #1: First Impression

Pairing: PrussiaxHungary

She lights a candle in the dark.

The flame is small, dancing across her face, wavering and uncertain. A moth's black shadow moves across her body.

Poor thing, why would it come down here?

Lost, maybe? It flies towards the flame. Papery thinness of its wings melting in the wax.

She blinks as the moth is eaten by the fire. She watches as it turns dark, crinkling and slowly turning to ash. It does not even twitch.

What a passionate creature, to cling to its pyre even as it dies. Her green eyes are filled with firelight.

Tears, too.

Panting softly, she leans towards the candle and touches the dead moth. It crumbles beneath her fingertip. Specks of black disappear into the darkness.

Two or three alight on her face. She does not bother to wipe them away. They will become the evidence that she needs, the tactile proof that this is not just a dream.

And in the morning, when she wakes, she will find the specks on her cheek. Fresh and hot against her pale skin.

But for now, she can only imagine the coming morning. It is a hazy vision, almost unrecognizable. The sun is a flat circle in which she paints, nothing more.

Can she even remember the feeling of sunlight after this?

Poor Elizaveta, why would she come down here?

Lost, maybe? She walks toward the flame. Papery thinness of her heart melting in his arms.

His…arms…

They aren't Roderich's, they are stronger, paler.

Someone who has not seen the sun in decades, and yet he has always been there, watching her. From the cold winters of her childhood to now.

The frigid season of her life, trapped in a birdcage while her master quietly plays the piano. Some warmth would be nice.

He is living fire, the angel that caresses her now. He says nothing as he holds her against him, fingers dancing across her abdomen.

Moving like a shadow. Except nothing is casting this shadow.

Thin lace rustles beneath his fingertips. He can almost feel her, the softness of her skin, the contours of her young body.

But he dare not touch that face.

Even him, arrogant in his music, in the way he holds the opera house in an unclenched fist, even he cannot find the courage to brush such beauty.

His fingers are rough from years of playing. Each bow string crusted with dried blood. To corrupt that face…it would be more than a sin.

She would never know, though.

She is drifting off in his arms. Eyelids flutter, cheeks flush.

What kind of dream is this?

The arms tighten around her waist and she gasps. Looking up, she cannot see his face. Etched in black shadow, he is nothing but dark lines encompassing a single red eye.

This is the first time she has seen him.

Her angel.

He is a ghost wandering between two worlds. She wants to see more of him.

The mask is enticing. It calls to her.

She grabs it with both hands, clinging to her pyre.


	2. Beautiful

**A/N: For **username-pocky**, a GiriPan oneshot based on the theme, Beautiful. Hope you like it **username-pocky**, and I hope all of you readers do, too. The themes right now are:**

**1. Mock**

**2. Smile**

**3. Feather**

**4. Tease**

**Request, request, request! And please leave a review :). **

* * *

Theme #2: Beautiful

Pairing: GreecexJapan

The rain is falling in sheets tonight.

Heracles presses forward, his collar up.

Where he is, he does not know. Somewhere he has never been before.

The road is narrow. Trees reach out to him with their wooden claws.

Pitter. Pat. Pitter. Pat.

Raindrops on the cobblestone.

Heracles struggles to see through the storm.

A cat meows. He looks down and sees it there. Small and black, shivering in the rain.

"Meow?"

"What are you doing out here?"

Kneeling down, he grasps the cat and brings it to his chest.

"You're so cold…"

"Meow?" Its head is soft against his cheek.

Heracles smiles. "Here, I'll put you inside my jacket, you'll be warmer there."

He tucks the cat inside the jacket and buttons it up to his collarbone. "Much better isn't it?"

The road keeps going.

He wanders, absentmindedly petting the stray cat.

Rain falls.

Lightning scars the sky.

Through the thick mist, a rusted gate appears.

"Hello?"

Pieces of silver flake off when he grabs the bars. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

Nothing.

Another bolt. Bright yellow flashes across his face.

He takes a deep breath. "Let's go."

The gate creaks on its hinges.

Overgrown hedges on either side. Wild grass at his feet. A shiver runs up his spine.

"What is this place?"

He walks through the green corridor. Some kind of twisted maze?

A massive castle is suddenly before him.

Ancient stones, like some forgotten ruin at the edge of civilization.

He runs up to the door and knocks.

"If anyone's in there, would you please let me in?"

Nothing.

The door opens beneath his fingertips.

Darkness, the shadow of life spread across the floor. Dust, glass, the smell of resin from wet wood.

A sound. Knives dragged across the floor.

Heracles jumps.

"Who's there?"

More scratching.

A voice whispers in the dark. "Have you come to mock me?"

"No, of course not. I don't even know who you are. Are you the person that owns this house?"

"I wouldn't exactly call myself a person."

Scissors on the hardwood.

"I'm hated, cursed; the snow that falls onto my fingertip won't even melt."

"Of course you're a person. You can talk and think, and I bet you look like a person, too."

"And what if I don't?" The voice is emotionless.

"Why don't you come out and show me what you look like?"

Knives on the banister, needles on the stained-glass window.

A dark figure stands in a pool of kaleidoscope light.

Heracles sees pale skin and black hair. Slender body, flat brown eyes.

"Do you see?"

"See what?"

"Look at my hands."

Heracles looks, Heracles stares, Heracles cannot look away.

In place of hands, there are knives and pointed fingers that glint in the moonlight.

He tries to look away.

But how can he?

And then the eyes are moving. He sees them, blank and sad.

Sad eyes.

Heavy hands.

Silent words. This man isn't a monster.

Who is he? What is he? A person, a cursed creature? He must be so lonely. What a sad life he must lead.

Every day he hides within the confines of his castle, away from the rest of the world. And when it is night and blackness descends upon the blackness, the stars are visible through the windows.

He loves the stars; the rising sun, too. They look at him without judgment.

He has dreams.

But every time he tries to follow them, they flee.

Heracles takes a step toward him. "You look like a person to me. A man, and a very beautiful one, too."

"Beautiful?" The word tastes strange on his tongue.

"Yes. You know beautiful, right? Like a Grecian statue, Bellerophon, perhaps? What's your name?"

"Kiku."

"What a nice name. I'm Heracles."

"Heracles…"

Kiku looks up at the man in front of him, brown hair and green eyes. Raindrops cling to the bangs and eyelashes. He gasps. He has not seen another person in so long, and this man…

Well, he is beautiful.

A yellow chrysanthemum. Greek words combined to create the golden flower of Japan.

Kiku hears footsteps. Heracles is standing before him.

"May I hold your hands?"

Heracles carefully grasps his wrists, running his fingers over the knives.

"It's like holding a diamond. Delicate and at the slightest touch…" One of the sharp blades slices his palm open. "At the slightest touch, it will shatter."

Kiku jumps back. "I'm sorry. Truly, I'm sorry. It would be safer if you left."

"No, I'm fine. It's just a scratch."

"Meow?"

The cat in Heracles' jacket pokes its head out.

Kiku smiles. "A kitty."

"Why don't you pet him? He'd like that."

"Oh, I don't think so. I would probably just injure him."

Heracles shakes his head. "No you won't. Here, just give him a nice pat on the head."

He guides Kiku's hand towards the cat.

The sharp fingers reach out towards the soft fur.

He touches it.

Warm and comforting, he feels himself smile.

Warmth and light spread across his entire body. He feels…peaceful for the first time in his life.

Warmth and light, peace and a sudden sensation that makes him wince in pain.

And then…

Kiku gasps. "How is this possible?"

Knives turn to fingers, scissors become soft flesh.

"My hands are real…"

"I don't know what happened." Heracles stares at the pale hands. So beautiful. "After you touched the cat…wait, where is he?"

He feels his jacket and realizes that it is empty.

The cat is gone.

"It cured me." Tears fall down Kiku's face. "You and that cat…both of you cured me."

He brings his new hand up to Heracles' face and gently touches his cheek. Kiku shudders at human contact, but then he smiles.

"Thank you."

Heracles smiles back and grabs Kiku's other hand, their fingers intertwining.


	3. Tease

**A/N: Sorry it took so long, **username-pocky**. But here it is! Enjoy and please review, everyone :).**

**Themes left are:**

**1. Smile**

**2. Feather**

* * *

Theme #3: Tease

Pairing: Ancient RomexAncient Greece

"Here," the bespectacled woman said, handing him a sheet of paper. "Fill it out, bring it back."

Without a word of reply, Roma retired to one of the chairs in the massive lobby. Dozens of countries were all sitting down, immersed in their forms. He looked down at the first question.

_What is your name? Answer within ten characters._

Well, he couldn't do that. Ancient Rome was one letter too long. Next question.

_Why are you living? Answer within one hundred characters._

What a stupid question, as if he had the answer to that. At that very moment, he felt like he had no purpose whatsoever. He was a random country filling out a random form for some stupid, random reason. In a fit of anger, he threw the paper onto the floor. It now read:

What is your name? Answer within ten characters:

Ancient Rom

Why are you living? Answer within one hundred characters:

Why are YOU living? So that you can ask me stupid questions? Idiota.

"I hate this survey too," a voice said beside him.

Roma's pupils slid across his eyes and came to rest on a girl that he had not even known was sitting next to him. She was staring at him with green-gold eyes that seemed to glow, and she was smiling too. Her dark hair was flowing down her back. The locks framed her slight face.

Roma gasped, she was very beautiful. And he loved beautiful women. In his younger days, wine, art, and women had been his passion.

But grapes shrivel, paint flakes, and women will all eventually age.

He sighed, a wry smile twisting his handsome face.

"Yeah, it sucks," he said, picking the form off the floor. "But we have to do it, so whatever."

"I really wonder if we have to," the girl said thoughtfully. "Think about, what's the purpose behind this survey? What does it accomplish?"

"That's a good question, it should be number three," Roma replied, laughing.

The girl laughed too, and soon they were laughing together. They were just two old countries, filling out a form for no reason.

She had to be an antiquity. None of the younger countries looked so elegant and wise. Her eyes glowed with the spirit of Minerva.

_So we're two fading countries, laughing over a piece of paper. White sheets of paper, something that wasn't even around when I was in my prime…_

At the thought of this, Roma's laughter immediately faded, as did the girl's. They turned solemnly back to the surveys.

"I don't have an answer for the second one," the girl whispered.

"Me either." Roma looked at the question: why are you living? "It's kind of sad. Like we don't have a purpose or something, like we've been—"

"Left behind?"

He stared at the girl, at her wide green eyes and the insane amount of depth that he found there.

_She's gorgeous. Those eyes…they play with my mind, tease me. Where have I seen her before?_

Left behind.

"Yeah," he muttered, "exactly like that."

They sat in silence for a while, their eyes connected, their minds racing. They were communicating in a way rarely seen, transcending all words and sentences, no run-ons or misunderstandings. They simply understood each other for the fraction of a second.

Then the girl's pen twitched in her fingers and she looked down at her survey. "Well," she started, "I'm all done. Here, why don't you turn it in for me?"

She handed the form to Roma, then pulled her hair in front of her shoulders and started down the aisles, aiming for the exit. Roma didn't know what to do or say, he hadn't even asked where she was from, or how old she was, or what her name was…her name.

_It's on the form._

In a heated frenzy, he gripped the paper with both hands and read the answer to question one.

What is your name? Answer within ten characters:

Ancient Gre

_Ancient Greece…that's her full name._

Answer to question two:

Why are you living? Answer within one hundred characters:

I was left alone somewhere in a faded world; a dream world where I am left behind. I can't get out; I can't leave this place without you. We are forgotten, Roma, a thing of the past. And tomorrow is coming faster and faster each day. Who are we, Roma? Antiquities in a museum, waiting to fade to dust? We must remember ourselves, my ancient and forgotten love. You were a tease in the old days, I remember hating you. But now, the world is teasing us and we are on our own. I want to escape forgetfulness. I can't do it alone; I need you by my side.


	4. Mock

**A/N: For **Catatonic Inspiration**. Hope you like it! And **Ayumi Kudou**, sure I can do those. Any particular themes in mind or pairing you prefer over the others?**

**Here's a new batch of themes by the way, just some random ones:**

**1. Feather**

**2. Smile**

**3. Tattoo**

**4. Lace**

**5. Pure**

**Enjoy, and please review and request! :)**

* * *

Theme #4: Mock

Pairing: TaiwanxJapan

The red heels made it difficult to walk, so she ripped them off and left them hidden under a blanket of snow.

She walked.

Away from the lights of the party, the night was suddenly very dark and deep. Stars sparkled overhead like diamonds, cicadas murmured in their sleep.

The insects stopped abruptly. A fire truck came barreling down the street, sirens blaring.

Mei stared. "A fire."

Something exciting, different; she had never seen a real house fire before. Without another thought, she took off, glad to be rid of her shoes.

She ran towards the pulsating heart of fire that beat a few blocks away.

When she finally came upon it, she discovered that it wasn't a house at all.

"There was a circus in town?"

A deflated tent, striped with red and white, was melting before her. A wax candle falling in on itself. There wasn't any screaming coming from the flame-engulfed tent.

In fact, except for the growl of the fire and the pop of the tent, it was rather quiet. Mei stood there, feeling the sweat trickle down her face despite the persistent flurries of snow.

The fire truck was parked in the grass; but no one was there.

"Want to see a trick?"

"Huh? Who said that?"

"Over here."

She turned to her right and saw the origin of the strange voice. A short boy sitting on a wooden crate in the snow, his legs pulled up to his chin.

A stack of playing cards were in his lap. He pulled one off the top of the deck, holding it up to Mei as if he were offering her a cigarette.

"Want to see a trick?"

"I do like magic," Mei said absentmindedly.

The boy's presence entranced her, the flames becoming red blurs behind him. This person, whoever he was, black hair and black eyes, pulled her into his card game. The queen of spades weaved its way through his fingers, coming to rest at his thumb.

"Watch." The card slid through his fingers again. When it came to his thumb, it transformed into a flower. "For you, miss."

"Wow, a plum blossom, how pretty. Thank you." She went to grab it, touching the boy's hand in the process, feeling the cold fingertips beneath the fingerless gloves. His skin was so very soft, so pale and tender.

"So what are you, some kind of magician?" she asked, inhaling the blossom's sweet scent.

"Well, I guess you could say I _was_ a magician." The plum blossom suddenly vanished from Mei's hand, reappearing as the queen of spades in between the boy's fingers.

_Almost like real magic. But I don't know, maybe he's making a mockery of me?_

"You seem like a magician to me," Mei replied, still startled by the 'trick'.

"A magician needs a troupe; he needs a circus to be considered a true, practicing magician. Otherwise, he's just a wandering illusionist trying to earn a few dollars." He shuffled the cards and began laying them out in the snow, playing solitaire with himself. "My circus is gone; therefore, I have no place in this world anymore."

"Oh, I didn't know." Mei looked at the smoldering circus tent. "I'm terribly sorry. Was there anyone inside?"

"The entire troupe was inside. The acrobats, the lion tamers, the clowns and dancers, the ringmaster too." He heaved a sigh and glanced towards the remains of the tent. "Everyone but me."

Mei gasped. "That's awful!"

"That's life."

A few seconds of heavy silence, then a strong, icy gust suddenly blew across the lawn, making Mei's hair fly every which way.

The magician looked up, his black pupils staring blankly at the girl in front of him. His irises were intoxicating. Deep and black.

Like the night.

Mei's lips curled into a faint smile when she saw them. They were so…cute.

The horrors of the fire melted away, much like the circus tent, and Mei was left suspended in a cocoon of enchantment.

But she couldn't say anything, obviously. To do so would be awkward, worrisome. She could not just go around telling strange men that she found them attractive.

The magician stood up just as Mei was turning away. "Wait," he said, catching her by the wrist. "Would you like to see one last trick?"

"No than—" Her voice faltered, her mind gave in, and she turned reluctantly around. "Just make it quick, please."

"As you wish. Now close your eyes."

Mei swallowed hard, her eyelids fluttering.

"Don't be afraid. Just close your eyes."

The world went dark.

"I can guess your name." The magician's voice sounded very far away. "It's Mei." Soft hands touched her face. "Now, Mei, tell me my name."

The smooth skin, the feeling of those black locks against her forehead, the snow and the fire, it was all so overwhelming.

Somehow, she knew his name.

"It's Kiku."

"Good job."

And then Mei felt soft lips against hers, cold lips fringed with fiery heat. Shocking, surprising, mesmerizing.

Briefly, she made a small gap to show her true self, allowing her lips to kiss back. Snowflakes danced on their cheeks, a flurry of playing cards surrounded them.

"This is what real love should feel like," Kiku whispered in her ear. "Never accept a mock kiss, Mei. Stop worrying about what other's think. Remember that in the real world."

Mei opened her eyes. "The real world?"

"Of course." Kiku held up the queen of spades. "Didn't you know, Mei? This is all just an illusion."

"What?"

Mei reached out to him, but he was gone. No circus tent, no fire truck, no beautiful magician named Kiku. Just brown eyes open wide, the shadow of a kiss on her cheek.

Mock kisses? Never. The magician had been real. His performance would never be a mockery.


	5. Smile

**A/N: Ok, I know this wasn't a request, but I just wanted to post this because I like this pairing. Next oneshots/drabbles will be MongoliaxChina, ItaSey, and whatever other requests I get haha.**

**Themes:**

**Honestly, you can request any theme now. Previous chapters have some choices, so feel free to use those, too.**

**Enjoy, leave a request, and please, please review! :)**

* * *

Theme #5: Smile

Pairing: Fem!PrussiaxCanada

"It's so hot," Maria muttered.

Matthew nodded and tempted her with the box of cigarettes he held in his hand.

Maria looked sideways at him, her head unmoving.

"Give 'em to me."

He laughed faintly, his golden hair rustling in the breeze. His laugh ticked her off, gnawing at her patience until her face flushed scarlet.

Why was he always smiling?

She snatched a cigarette as it slid out of the box, and made a grab for the lighter, but he kicked it away.

It slid across the concrete, spinning as it went.

"You don't need that, mine's already lit."

Maria spat on the ground in disgust, her fingers slowly placing the cigarette in her mouth.

"Fine, then sit down already and light mine for me."

Matthew laughed again and sat next to her. His legs cast long shadows that followed the horizon, black bars of night that chased after the sun's dying rays.

A simple depiction of what this boy really was, blonde hair and blue eyes the color of the Artic Sea. In utter contrast from Maria's silver hair and blood red eyes, a completely separate creature from what she was.

Still, they may have looked different, but they were the same.

Both of them were outcasts and rejects, addicts who had hit rock bottom and ended up at the local Rehabilitation Center.

Maria shook her head and raised her eyes. There was Matthew, leaning over her, his face looming over hers.

The cigarette dangling from his lips came closer to the one clenched between her teeth. She tilted forward until the two met and the heat transferred in the still air. They sat with cheeks pressed together, their burning temples caressing one another's skin.

Their eyes half closed, a sultry wind blowing across the tops of the high buildings, a dead man's wonderland of dream-like proportions.

Newspaper birds flew over the streets below, their wings hanging by black thread.

They lived outside the city, up in the hills, in a sprawling house that overlooked the suburbs. Maria could see her old apartment if she squinted her eyes hard enough.

Together, she and Matthew would come outside to the balcony, smuggling out their secret pack of cigarettes.

Even though Maria was in for alcoholism, and Matthew had come to the rehab center for a painkiller addiction, they still were not allowed to smoke. No smoking, drinking, snorting, or injecting. It was a clean house, sparkling and white in the sunlight.

An impossible goal for Maria, to be like that house, so pure and perfect.

But the people inside that house were working hard to make her that way, uninstalling all of her negative attitudes and uncontrollable habits.

_Yeah, it's not bad. I should change._

She looked at Matthew, her cheek still pressed to his.

"Mattie, do you think you'll ever be able to beat it?"

He laughed, his shoulders shaking. "Honestly, no, but I'm going to keep trying. If I can't defeat it, I can at least wound it or something, make it less powerful."

"That's one way of looking at it."

"But I think you can do it. You're a lot stronger than me."

Maria's eyes widened, the cigarette falling from her lips. "What?"

He shrugged. "It's true. I can just tell. You have a kind of fire in your eyes, one that will stop at nothing until it gets what it wants. And you want freedom, Maria, right?"

"I…uh…yeah, I guess I do."

She felt his fingers wrap around hers. "What are you doing, Matthew?"

"Turn around, and I'll show you."

"Huh?"

She turned her head and found his lips there, ready to kiss her, to share his strength with her.

Her red eyes were wide and unblinking as Matthew kissed her. Fingers wrapped around hers, soft lips pressed against her cracked ones. Silver hair mixed with strands of blonde. All at once, she closed her eyes and kissed him back, gripping his shoulder.

She could feel him smiling beneath her lips.

She could do it, overcome the monster and fear. She could rid herself of the impulses, uninstall her past regrets. With Matthew by her side, anything could be overcome.


	6. Pure

**A/N: An ItaSey for **Ayumi Kudou**, hope you like it! I've never written for this crack pairing before, but I tried ^^". **

**And seriously, guys, request! A pairing and a theme, that's all I need.**

**Anyways, enjoy and please review :). **

* * *

Theme #6: Pure

Pairing: ItalyxSeychelles

There are millions of stars. Millions of eyes.

The total lack of artificial lighting makes the sky look even more spectacular. This is how the night sky is supposed to look. Untained and whole.

Pure.

The true universe. Galaxies stretch across the infinite black plane and nebulas explode over the horizon.

Italy cannot help but stare in awe.

"You like the stars."

He turns to his right and sees her standing there, long hair enveloping her body, her brown eyes glowing in the starlit darkness. Seychelles in all her beauty.

"I do," Italy replies, leaning against a palm tree. "They look so different here. It's like you can see the whole universe from this tiny island."

"Well, we are in the middle of the ocean," she says with a laugh. "My tiny unknown island, right at the edge of the world! But you can always see so much more from the edge."

"Don't you get lonely out here on the edge?"

She shrugs. "Not really, I love this island." She cast her eyes down. "But sometimes, when I'm looking up at the starry sky, I do feel kinda sad. And I just have to tell myself, 'I will let these feelings ride on the winds and wander far away.' But ignore me, Italy; I didn't invite you out here to hear me complain."

"No, you can complain." He smiles wide. "Germany complains to me all the time, so I'm used to it."

"Well, ok. I can't cook, living is just too expensive nowadays, and France is a big perv…there are my complaints."

Italy bursts out laughing. "Your complaints are so funny! Tell me more! Please, please?"

Seychelles leans on the opposite side of the palm tree and giggles. "Fine."

Minutes pass. Italy finds himself looking around the tree, staring at her. The girl beside him, her brown hair flowing like the ocean tide, is extraordinarily beautiful.

The winds of her island carry her emotions away, across the untouched seas that surround her world. Italy feels sorry for her; she shouldn't have to be so alone. But something is holding him back, a feeling he cannot explain, so he just stands there and stares at her with unblinking eyes.

"Italy," she suddenly says. "Do you ever feel alone?"

"Of course I do." Looking at the stars again, he sighs. "And especially now that Germany had to leave, I feel more alone than ever. But like you said, you just have to let those feelings fade away, I guess."

"Yes…just fade away. But it's not good to let every feeling fade away, is it? Feelings like joy and love, those should stay."

"Yeah, love is the most important feeling in the world."

She's there, standing next him, her eyes wide. "Even out here, on my tiny, unknown island?"

Italy almost falls into the sand. He braces himself against the palm tree and looks at Seychelles.

"You're…you're crying," he whispers. "Don't cry…"

"Can you show me love, Italy?" she asks, standing directly in front of him. "I've never truly felt it or received it. I've spent most of my life out here, ignored. And then I saw you, and I felt something I had never felt before…love."

She leans forward and breathes. There is a gleam in the depths of her irises. Seychelles comes closer and closer, her hands sliding down his face.

Italy can no longer hold his eyes open, so he blinks. And they are standing in the sand, kissing under the stars.


	7. Forever

**A/N: For **AllyHWarner**. Now, I know that women were not involved in combat during the Vietnam War, but I had to make Amelia a soldier for the sake of this story. So just go with it lol. Hope you all enjoy and please review!**

**And leave requests! Any pairing, any theme! :)**

* * *

Theme#7: Forever

Pairing: Fem!AmericaxMale!Vietnam

Tuan stands motionless, gasping for breath. He is alive. Seconds ago he had been preparing for death, and now…

His knees finally give out and he slides down the blood-slicked wall.

The soldier is still draped across his body like a sheet. Eyes open and blind. Tuan gawks at the lifeless body now lying on the floor, a gun inches from the soldier's hand. Moments ago, he had almost been shot by this nameless enemy. And now he was saved, saved by a bullet that killed the soldier at the last second.

Tuan is overwhelmed with relief. Fresh tears well in his eyes. He pulls off his helmet and rests his back against the wall. The bullet-wound in his shoulder no longer hurts. His shirt is covered in dried blood and his face is stained with tears. All is silent. It is eerie, but at the same time comforting to know it is over.

But who had saved him? Who had shot the soldier? He is too tired to look around.

He hears footsteps echoing in the silence. Sitting up, he looks wildly around.

"Tuan?"

"Amelia?"

Sure enough, Amelia's blue eyes peer out of the darkness. Tuan stands up and stares at her. It's actually her, the American soldier he met in a foxhole one night. They had been taking shelter as napalm fell from the sky. And when two people end up in a foxhole, whether they are enemies or not, they never fight. They just lay there, eyes closed, chests heaving. Praying that they will live.

And now she's here. She has saved his life by killing one of her own.

"What are you…"

She holds up her sniper rifle before he can finish.

"It was you? You shot that soldier? But…he's American, like you."

"And the man I shot yesterday was Vietnamese, like you. But who cares? Does it even matter anymore?" She walks up to him, staring straight into his eyes. "I just saw you here, about to die and I couldn't let that happen. You aren't an evil person, Tuan. Just 'cause we're opposite sides doesn't mean we can't be friends."

"I, uh, I guess. But why save me?"

"There's something different about you, that's why." Amelia manages a small smile. She pushes his hair aside with the barrel of her gun. "You were nice to me in that foxhole. And even though you never smile, I know that you're a good person inside."

"Thank you. You're…you're nice too, Amelia."

Still smiling, she strokes his chest with her hand. "I'm happy to have met you, Tuan."

He feels her fingertips on his hand and pulls away.

"What, what is it?" Amelia's eyes flash with hurt.

"I'm sorry, it's just that I…" He falters and turns away. "I don't know, I just feel like I…"

He can't say it. It is on the edge of his mind, but he cannot repeat it, out loud, to her face. He turns his back to her.

"I feel like, I love you." His tired mind strains to say and to feel this.

He can love, right? Even after a war, and even though she is the enemy…he can love.

He hears her whisper behind him. "You do?"

"Yes, I do. Forever."

Turning around, he attempts a smile for the first time. It is sloppy and crooked, but she loves it anyways. When she kisses him, he does not turn away.

He falls into her kiss.

Tuan holds her face with his bloodied, war-ridden hands. He crushes his lips against her jaw and she presses her light lips against his cheek.

He loves her, he genuinely loves her.

Amelia wraps her arms around his waist, her nimble fingers undoing the magazine. Bullets fall to the floor.

She holds his arms vice-like, and he holds her neck. And there they were, kissing among the bodies, the bullets on the ground, death at their feet.

All of war beneath them.


	8. Acceptance

**A/N: A little GerIta that I wanted to write. Next few oneshots/drabbles will be a lot happier and fluffier. I'll be posting MongoliaxChina, South KoreaxAmerica, and whatever else you guys request.**

**Enjoy, leave a request, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#8: Acceptance

Pairing: GermanyxItaly

He stands in the hot sun, waiting. Today he is playing janitor, cleaning up the mess that others left behind. The camp is deserted.

All of the prisoners have been moved. Trains roll down the rusted tracks. Black smoke is stale, ash is crumbling. Ludwig takes a deep breath.

Death and emptiness.

For a second, he almost feels like crying. This is not what he signed up for.

A young soldier walks up to him, the red armband on his sleeve rippling slightly in the wind. "Lieutenant, I found this in the mud. What should I do with it?"

Ludwig looks at the yellow Star of David with hollow eyes. _This could have been his. He could have been here…dying and alone._

He clears his throat. "Give it to me, soldier."

"Sir?"

"That's an order, Private. Now get back to work."

"Yes sir." A quick salute. Is the young boy actually trembling? And then the soldier is gone.

Ludwig feels the rotted material of the yellow star and hopes that he is alive.

It will always be with him, day and night.

_Just like him. We were always together before the war._

Their story was quite simple, really. They met in a sunlit alleyway, on an ironically peaceful day in the middle of spring.

Feliciano lived in the ghetto, Ludwig lived in a prestigious college dormitory, but it didn't matter. Ludwig saw past the branding on his chest and Feliciano saw past the blonde hair and blue eyes. They accepted each other, meeting in the secret silence of night to talk and dream beneath the moonlight.

Nobody ever knew, nobody ever suspected anything.

Ludwig was destined to become a great soldier; Feliciano was destined to become nothing. They went about their daily lives, fully living up to their expectations. Nobody ever said a thing. But history knew what was going on, so one day it intervened and brought the SS to their town. The ghetto was cleaned out, Feliciano was carted away, and Ludwig was left behind.

He never saw the Italian again.

And now he holds the star in his hands. A piece of ripped material, crushed beneath the boots of his countrymen. It means so much more to him.

He puts it in his pocket and continues through the camp. Shoes sink into the wet mud, dry wind ruffles his hair.

The star presses against him. Someday, the smoke of war may clear and the stars will be visible again. Someday, Feliciano may come back to him.


	9. Realization

**A/N: Spamano for **Otaku-Jewel**. Because all of my themes are one word, I just shorted "Realizing I love you" to "Realization". But it's your requested theme, so don't worry ^^. Anyways, hope you like it!**

**Upcoming pairings (in no particular order):**

**MongoliaxChina, 2P!FrUK, Fem!South KoreaxAmerica, FrUK FACE family fic**

**Enjoy, request, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#9: Realization

Pairing: SpainxRomano

_Roses are red._

_Violets are blue._

_Tomatoes are sweet._

_And I guess you are, too._

Antonio turns the note over in his hand. It's crinkled and covered in angry pen marks. Like someone really did not want to write this.

But they did.

With a red pen, they scribbled out a hasty poem and signed it:

Nobody Important.

And now it's lying on Antonio's desk. He's never really liked Valentine's Day. Every year, he sits at his desk, eating his lunch and watching as Francis sweeps girls off their feet. Gilbert and Elizaveta are always in the back of the classroom, simultaneously arguing and making out.

This Valentine's Day is no different. His lunch, a single ripe tomato, lies on a napkin. Lips stained red, a few seeds on the corner of his mouth. He is certainly cute enough.

Hazel eyes see the tomato seeds. Shaking fingers spin a red pen. But Antonio does not notice.

_Bastardo…you don't even recognize my handwriting. Whatever, stupid tomato lover._

Antonio is spacing out. He takes a bite, licks his lips, and takes another bite. He's thinking, crushing the note in his other hand.

Because this Valentine's Day is somewhat different. Seven-fifteen in the morning, sitting in a plastic chair, he had found it. A small piece of paper.

Sure, he receives Valentines every year. Girls give him chocolates. Roses tied with ribbons and a nervous smile. "Here, Antonio. I know roses are your favorite."

But he has never gotten an anonymous note. The handwriting is somewhat familiar.

He looks around the classroom. Can't be Elizaveta, she's with Gil. Can't be Bella or Mei.

One by one, the girls are scratched off his list. So, maybe it's a boy?

"No puede ser. This is a girl's handwriting, right?" He shakes his head and takes another bite. Thick, red, and juicy. He licks his lips again.

Shaking fingers curl into a fist. The red pen hits the desk. Still, Antonio does not notice.

A nervous girl approaches him. He smiles. "Hola, cariño."

She blushes and hands him a heart-shaped box. "H-here you go, Antonio. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Thank you."

The girl giggles and walks away. There's no point in waiting, she knows that. Antonio never gives Valentines to anyone.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the class, he keeps a single rose in his backpack. A Spanish Sunset, dark orange with delicate petals.

Antonio puts the box into his desk and unfolds the note.

Again, he reads.

_Roses are red._

_Violets are blue._

_Tomatoes are sweet._

_And I guess you are, too._

_-Nobody Important_

Tomatoes…there's something there. The poet knows that he likes them. So the poet must watch him eat lunch, so the poet must be watching now.

Watching right now.

Antonio looks up. Green eyes on hazel. A shocked face finds another.

The only person looking his way is Lovino Vargas.

"Dios mio…"

He casually unzips his backpack. A few girls glance at him as he stands up.

It is a long walk from his desk to the other side of the classroom. He is trying not to smile.

Suddenly, he is standing over Vargas. Hazel eyes widen when the rose ends up on his desk.

Antonio grins.

"Hey, 'Nobody Important'. Here's a poem for you:

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I finally realize

That you are sweet, too_._"


	10. Comfort

**A/N: For **I SEEE YOOUU**, who requested via private message. Some FrUk FACE family. I took the theme "Comfort" and the first word that popped into my head was comforter and then this story happened xD. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, everyone. Please leave a request and don't forget to review! :). **

* * *

Theme#10: Comfort

Pairing: FrancexUK (some cute, brotherly USxCanada as well)

Mattie won't come out. He's hiding under the covers. A white mound in the darkness, sheets and blankets piled high. Little Mattie is a polar bear hiding in the snow.

Alfred is the hunter. He has always been that way.

Arthur knows it, Francis knows it. The whole family knows it.

To prove them right once again, he tackles his brother and starts yelling. "Mattie! Come on, bro. I know Arthur's cooking sucks, but you can't miss dinner! You just can't!"

Fingers poke and prod. They're looking for Mattie's soft spots. His ticklishness is just one of his many weaknesses.

Alfred laughs, his glasses crooked on his face. "I'm gonna tickle you to death unless you get up! Here I come, here I come!"

There it is. The spot just below Mattie's ribcage.

Alfred goes in for the kill.

But there's no response. The white mound is unmoving. Nothing but the steady pulse of slow breathing. Lungs inflating in the dark.

No one moves. The glasses dangle off Alfred's nose. He leans forward.

"Mattie? Hey, what's wrong?"

Nothing.

* * *

In the next room, Francis won't come out. He's hiding under the covers. A floral print mound in the darkness, sheets and quilts piled high. Francis is a rose bud hiding in the dirt.

Arthur is the hunter. He has always been that way.

Alfred knows it, Mattie knows it. The whole family knows it.

Everyone knows it, but Arthur himself. He crawls onto the bed and stabs the comforter with his finger.

"It's time for dinner. Get your lazy bum out of bed."

No response.

Arthur nudges the mound with his foot. "Hey, get up you git."

Still, nothing.

Is Francis seriously ignoring him? He wracks his brain, trying to pull up any kind of incident, but there's nothing. Sure, they fight a lot. Every family fights. They haven't had any major argument in days, so Francis can't be angry at him.

The food, then. Arthur is busy making dinner. The smell of overcooked fish and burnt chips is strong in the kitchen. Everyone hates his cooking, except for Alfred who will pretty much eat anything. Francis is always complaining about it.

But does his terrible cooking warrant the silent treatment?

Absolutely not.

He kicks the mound a little harder. "Listen you frog, I don't care if you hate my food. But I worked very hard making tonight's meal and you could at least try it!"

Silence.

"Bloody hell, you could at least talk to me!"

* * *

In the other room, Alfred is resting his head on a pillow. He looks sideways at the white mound of sheets, humming loudly and cracking his knuckles. Two things that Mattie hates.

Not that Mattie hates humming, it's just the song.

That's Not My Name by the Ting Tings.

Because Alfred is such a skilled hunter, he knows how to annoy his prey. He calls it Mattie's anthem, since no one can ever seem to remember who Mattie actually is.

"You're name's Alfred, right?"

"Uh, n-no, it's Matthew. Alfred's my brother…"

Alfred hums it louder and pops his index finger. "Sing it with me, bro. I know you love it. 'They call me—"

He sighs and stares at the mound. "Seriously, man. What's your problem? Are you mad at me or something?"

They do fight a lot, just like Francis and Arthur. But every family fights. They're normal…right?

* * *

In the next room, Arthur is screaming at the floral print mound of sheets and quilts.

"Bloody arsehole! You are narcissistic git! I have to wait an hour and fifteen minutes for you to get out of the bathroom every morning! Every single bloody morning! I have a job, you know. And you're busy combing your hair or shaving your legs or whatever!"

Growling, he punches the mound.

Wow, Francis certainly feels…soft.

Still, no response.

"I, uh, think you're getting a little soft around the middle, Francis." Arthur laughs uncomfortably. "Francis?"

This is bad. No response to nudging or name calling. And now Arthur has gone and hit him, and there is still no response.

What could Arthur have possibly done?

The guilt is coming. It's coming, coming, and there it is. Like a steam engine, it plows through Arthur's head and makes him bite his lip.

"I...didn't mean to hit you. I'm sorry, truly. I just don't understand." He lies next to the mound. It is covered in folds of floral fabric. Slowly, he slides closer to it. "Please, tell me what's wrong, Francis."

* * *

In the other room, Alfred decides that it is time to strike.

"Stop acting like a baby and tell me what's wrong with you!" He stands up on the bed and puts out his arms, like he's about to take off flying.

"And Alfred F. Jones goes in for the KO of the century! A belly flop like no other, straight on his brother's face!"

With a battle-cry he falls. He hits the sheets, something hisses, and then he front-flips off the bed.

"Man that was awesome!" He sits up, shaking his head. "But why'd you hiss, Mattie? That's so weird…wait, you're not Mattie."

He's staring at a cat. Arthur's cat to be exact.

The white mound, the breathing and the hissing…

"That was you the entire time?!" Alfred jumps to his feet. "Then where's Mattie?"

He runs into the next room. The door flies open and hits the wall.

"Arthur! Mattie's been abducted by aliens!"

"The bloody hell?" Arthur is still lying next to the floral mound. He rolls away, almost falling off the bed in the process. "Don't you knock?"

Alfred jumps on top of him and starts shaking his shoulders. "I swear, Mattie's gone! He's been taken by something!"

"Calm down! And stop sitting on me! You're crushing my internal organs." Arthur pushes the little boy off and sits up. "Now, take a deep breath and explain it to me again."

Alfred sucks in a big gulp of air. "Fine. What happened was I was in our room and Mattie was hiding under the covers like a big baby except it wasn't really Mattie it was your cat and now Mattie's gone and—"

"For God's sake, slow down!" Arthur shakes his head and sighs. "Little children are ridiculous, making up wild stories."

"It's not made up!"

"Fine, fine. Look, I'll check on Mattie in a little bit. Just let me finish up here."

"Finish up what?" Alfred raises his eyebrows. "What were you doing?"

"N-nothing! Now stop being nosey and get out!" An angry Arthur points towards the door.

Oh, it's on now. Hunter and hunter. Green eyes on blue.

"I'm not leaving! I'm just gonna ask Francis to help me find Mattie!" He grabs the bundle of sheets and starts pulling.

"You stop that this instant, young man!" Arthur grips the floral print and pulls harder.

"Let go, stupid limey!"

"Do as I say or you'll get a good thrashing!"

"You can't thrash a big hero like me!"

"I most certainly can! Now let go or you're…you're grounded!"

Back and forth and back and forth and—

RIIIIIPPPP!

The sound of ripping fabric amidst Arthur's screams of, "No, these are Francis' favorite!"

The sheets tear down the middle.

The two hunters prepare to resume battle, but then they look at the mound.

Or what's left of it.

And there's no one there. No Francis. Just a collection of lacy pillows arranged in a Francis-like shape.

Alfred's eyes are wide. "The aliens got him, too…"

Arthur's mouth is open. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

* * *

Across town, Francis and Mattie are having dinner at a French restaurant.

Mattie looks nervous. "I-I really think we should have told them…"

"Nonsense, mon amour. They'll figure it out." He swirls the wine around in his glass. "Besides, we have done nothing wrong. It was either this or stay at home and endure Arthur's cooking. We had no choice."

"I guess you're right. Arthur is kind of a bad cook." After saying this, Mattie hides his blushing face behind a napkin.

Francis laughs. "Right you are, Mattie. Now let's see how long it takes Arthur to call me, hmm?"

Mattie nods.

"I propose a toast." Francis raises his wine glass. "To fine food and our two idiots at home. Our two perfect, wonderful idiots."

"To our idiots!" Mattie gives a wide, gap-toothed grin.

A glass of chocolate milk clinks against a glass of wine. And they dine on _Pot-au-feu _and warm baguettes, comfort food for those who live with an Englishman.


	11. Self-conscious

**A/N: For **Angleterre97**. A 2P!FrUK. I know I just posted a FrUK, but 2P! is a lot of fun to write. So, after some research, I decided to use the names Oliver and Louise for UK and France since they seem to be pretty popular 2P! names. Hope you like it!**

**Next, I will be doing SeychellesxCanada, Fem!South KoreaxAmerica, MongoliaxChina, and whatever else is requested.**

**Enjoy, everyone. Leave a request and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#11: Self-conscious

Pairing: 2P!Francex2P!UK

Believing it is true will only hurt him.

But he loves fairy tales, so he'll rest comfortably suspended over the fathoms of disbelief. In his story, he is Little Red and Louise is the Big Bad Wolf. If Red could cook and Wolfie smoked, then everything would be perfect.

Oliver is waiting at "grandmother's house", otherwise known as their crappy flat in the suburbs. Louise will come home tonight, he knows it. He can feel it.

Deep down, Louise is sweet. Like a cupcake. Saccharine and sickly. Oliver will gobble him up when he returns. That isn't right; Red is the one that gets eaten.

Oliver wouldn't mind being the gobble-ee instead of the gobbler.

Now he is the cupcake. And cupcakes must look nice. Pink frosting, sprinkles, and plenty of sugar. It will be great. He will sit on the couch, curled up next to a stoic Louise with the TV volume on high. They'll watch Alice in Wonderland for the fiftieth time and Louise will leave half way through the movie.

Flicking his cigarette into the ash tray, he will say, "I'm going to bed. Don't bother waking me up."

And Oliver will say, "You never finish the movie! But it's ok, cupcake. Sleep tight!"

Yes, it will be gr—

Oliver catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. Tangled hair and dark circles under his eyes. This is unacceptable.

Because he wants to look his best when Louise comes home. If Louise comes home.

Self-consciousness is a terrifying thing.

So he gets to work. After brushing his hair and putting on a new bow tie, he feels much better. He even picks one out for Louise. A black bow tie outlined in red thread.

Perfect for a wolf.

Deep down, he knows this is stupid. Believing in fairy tales will only hurt him. But he wants to be happy. It takes less facial muscles to smile.

Louise never smiles.

Oliver wants him to smile. Like how Wolfie smiled when he saw Red skipping down the path.

So he gets to work. After making a batch of cupcakes and slipping Alice in Wonderland into the DVD player, he feels much better. He even picks out a movie Louise might like.

Or, more accurately, he tries to pick a movie Louise might like. Louise hates romance, comedy, practically anything to do with people.

Oliver creates two stacks. One, movies where all of the human characters die. Two, movies that have animals as the main characters.

Something should appeal to his chain-smoking misanthrope.

Will his chain-smoking misanthrope ever come home?

It's midnight, and the city is dark. Oliver is curled up on the couch, next to a pillow and a half-eaten tray of cupcakes.

It's three in the morning, and the front door opens. Louise saunters in, tossing his keys onto the counter and lighting another cigarette.

He sees Oliver on the couch and says nothing. Two stacks of DVDs are on the coffee table. Hmm, they might be…interesting.

Somewhere within the fathoms of disbelief, Oliver is awoken by a finger prodding his spine.

"Wake up, moron."

"Huh?"

"Idiot. Anyways, you got any plans right now?"

Oliver rubs his eyes and yawns. "No, I just wok—"

"Me either. Now get me one of your shitty cupcakes and watch A Bug's Life with me."

'With me', did Louise really just say 'with me'? Oliver's eyes light up. "Sure, I can do that! And you're going to love these cupcakes. I put something special in them."

He hops off the couch and runs to the kitchen. Wolfie has come back to Little Red. Looks like the new bow tie really did the trick.


	12. Unrequited

**A/N: For **AllyHWarner**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, leave a request, and please review :).**

**P.S: I'm really in the mood to write a vampire oneshot/drabble, so if any of you want to request a specific pairing for that, I would be very happy ^^.**

* * *

Theme#12: Unrequited

Pairing: CanadaxSeychelles

Waves crash against Michelle's surfboard. Summer sun is hot like usual, water is salty and clear. Droplets stick to her skin as she rests atop the surface. The board is slick with her sweat.

Or is it ocean water? Whether it is tears, sweat, whatever, it will all vanish in the sea. Like tears in rain. Beneath the hot sun, she lies on her stomach. Brown eyes watch the fish. Green, yellow, and blue, they're a kaleidoscope of colors.

This is where she belongs. Sapphire water bathing her body, the tide pulling at her hair.

On the shore, Matthew is sitting alone.

Every Friday, after school, he comes to to watch her surf. He wonders if she even knows his name. They go to the same school, sure, but he's in the back of the classroom and she's in the front.

He twirls his pencil, trying to ignore the other students while they laugh at him and put a price tag on his back. One moment, he's invisible. The next, he's being beat up in the bathroom.

It's not Michelle's fault. She never sees these things. Matthew knows what it is. She's too happy to be near him. His soft voice and shy disposition is too much for her to handle.

The sun is afraid of the rain cloud.

And even though a nurse shark is harmless, snorkelers still swim away from it. Matthew scares her away, so he hides beneath the sand and wishes he was different.

He watches her from the seashore. Sitting under the hot sun, he does not bother to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He can't blink, or he might miss this.

Michelle is beautiful. Tan body stretched out on the surfboard, muscles shining and sheened with water. Wax from her board covers her skin. Or maybe it's sweat or saltwater. Whatever it is, it will all melt away when the rain comes.

A dark cloud is crawling across the sky.

Matthew has to take this in. Once the storm comes, the sunbeams will vanish and Michelle will go home.

Orange and red fingers dance across her back. Little droplets here and there, carefully painted on her body. Dew on a Tropicbird Orchid.

Water on her lips, tangled in her hair. Matthew squints, trying to see her fully. His vision is bad enough, even with the glasses.

No, no, no, the cloud is coming.

Squint harder, Mattie. Fingers curl into the white sand.

Thunder crackles overheard. Low and rumbling.

Michelle looks up at the sky. The sea grows restless. Waves slap the surfboard.

Scars on the board, scars on her hands. She isn't afraid of the ocean. But the rain is coming.

She starts paddling toward the shore.

Matthew watches her go. Her lithe arms cut through the water.

So beautiful, a painted dolphin playing in the sea.

She hits the sand, breathing fast and hard. Adrenaline floods her veins. Riding the choppy waves is fun. She wants to stay out longer, but her boyfriend is calling her back.

Her boyfriend…

Matthew can see him, the tall British boy with bright green eyes.

Matthew wishes he was in his place. He's not, though, and there's no sense in dreaming.

Michelle runs to her boyfriend. The strings on her bikini swing and the water flies off her body. That thin, tanned, gorgeous body.

He watches them go. Hand in hand, the couple leaves the beach. And the storm is here.

The sweat is falling into Matthew's eyes. Or maybe it's saltwater or tears. Whatever it is, it will all vanish in the rain.

Vanish just like him.


	13. Bloodlust

**A/N: I really wanted to write some vamp!fics, so here you are. I got a lot of pairing ideas via PM, so I'm going to do two in this chapter, and two in the next one. Thanks to **Catatonic Inspiration **and **Angleterre97 **for the great pairing ideas. In this one, I'm doing two of **Catatonic's**, but I'll do the others next.**

**Enjoy, everyone. Leave a request, I will repeat pairings. And please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#13: Bloodlust

Pairing: Vamp!AmericaxHuman!UK

Bare skin is white in the moonlight. Arthur takes a slow breath. This is happening too fast.

When Alfred came to him and said he would do it, surprise was the least of his emotions.

Excitement, fear…love. These were more powerful.

Boiling within his hot veins. Body on fire, neck itching with anticipation. Tonight, right now, in a matter of seconds…Alfred will do it.

"I've been waiting."

The voice is velvet and liquid moonlight. Arthur feels a shiver go down his spine.

"Me, too. I just—"

"No, no going back. You told me this is what you wanted." Alfred is behind him, fingers tangled in his thick blonde hair. "Now we have forever, Arthur. One bite, and forever will be ours."

He takes a shuddering breath. Alfred is right, this is what he wants. He's been begging for months. The blush spreads across his face, the blood swimming beneath his cheeks.

And Alfred gasps whenever the blush appears. His mouth waters and his pupils dilate.

"D-don't look at me like that! I'm not your bloody dinner!"

His shoulders shake with laughter. "I don't want to eat you, Artie. I just want to drink your blood."

"Oh, you're ridiculous! Enough of that, you're making me sick!" Blush deepens, Alfred starts panting.

"Artie's getting all worked up. I've always heard that Englishman were hot-blooded…hmm, sounds kinda delicious."

And then Arthur hides his face behind his hands and he starts rethinking his decision. If he becomes like Alfred…one of them…he will lose his appeal. The bespectacled American will no longer watch the blood flow beneath his skin.

But if he makes the change, then forever will be theirs.

"Forever, Artie."

Back in reality, the moment has come. Alfred sits behind him. Hands on his shirt collar, eyes on the patch of moonlit neck.

Teeth are bared. Sweat beads on Arthur's forehead.

"You ready?"

"Yes."

Ivory on flesh, a silent gasp, and then he feels it.

Forever slipping through his veins.

* * *

Theme#13: Bloodlust

Pairing: Vamp!PrussiaxVamp!Hungary

Sitting on the kitchen floor, Elizaveta realizes that she loves him. His white hair and blood-red eyes, she loves it all.

Blood, it has become an unfortunate familiarity.

Their veins may be empty of it, their bodies dry, but they love it.

She loves it almost as much as she loves him.

Warmth dripping down her throat, settling in her chest. It fills up that heart shaped cavity and gives her life.

He gives her life.

Tonight, they could almost be alive. Their victim lives inside a beautiful house.

More like lived. The woman was cooking dinner for no one. It was just her in the house. Elizaveta broke her neck and Gil punctured the throat.

A small incision. The preciseness of his bite is amazing. After all, he once posed as a doctor in some hospital. Discreetly drinking the blood of his patients, no one every suspected a thing.

Gil isn't a pure blood. He cannot turn others.

But Elizaveta can, so she can never just take a sip. She must drink it all and kill them.

The irony always makes her roll her eyes. Why is turning a human more of a crime than killing them? Is it really so wrong to transform a weak mortal into a vessel of beauty and immortality?

She doesn't think so.

But it doesn't matter. She has never had the desire to turn anyone. Gil is all she needs. And they can kiss on the kitchen floor, covered in the blood of a lonely woman.

They lick each other's faces, bare their fangs and wrestle in the pools of blood.

Elizaveta has him pinned. "We should sleep here, tonight. I checked out the master suite, it's awesome."

"Not as awesome as me." He grins wickedly.

"You are such an idiot." She rolls her eyes and digs her knees into his thighs. "Do you want to sleep here, or not?"

"Relax. Just having a bit of fun. Besides, you know my answer already."

"Of course I do."

She bends down and kisses him. Teeth tug at his lip. She can feel him smiling.

He tastes like blood.

Blood-red, like his eyes. The eyes that she loves.

The eyes, the hair, the face, the vampire named Gil.

All of this. If she were alive, she would love it all to death.


	14. Cookies

**A/N: A little SuFin for **OmegaStarShooter14**. Hope you like it! I have a lot of requests to write, it's so exciting :D. But keep the requests coming. I have nothing else to do haha ^^".**

**Enjoy everyone, leave a request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#14: Cookies

Paring: SwedenxFinland

Eating Swedish Fish on a train is nothing special.

But eating Swedish Fish on a train with Berwald Oxenstierna is.

Tino knows this. He can't wipe the smile off his face. He pops a red fish into his mouth and offers the box to Berwald.

"Hey, do you want one? They're Swedish, just like you. Hahaha…" There's that awkward laugh. He wishes it would stop.

No, no, it's ok. After all, he's just trying to lighten the mood. Berwald is quiet, looking over the top of his glasses.

Blue eyes are unblinking. Is there something on Tino's face?

He pours some of the fish into his hand. Rolling them around with a thumb, trying to avoid Berwald's relentless glare. "So…uh, did I tell you about the time Ivan took me on a train ride? It wasn't really that fun. Honestly, I'm having more fun with you."

Tino smiles. The corners of Berwald's mouth twitch. That's…progress.

His palm shaking, he offers the fish again. "You sure you don't want some? We ate lunch a few hours ago. You must be kind of hungry now."

"Um, actually I—"

"You're not hungry, it's all right. I understand!"

Tino shrinks away from that horrifying, intimidating, yet electrifying stare and looks out the window. Why does Berwald always do that? Glare at him like he's boring through his heart and straight into his soul.

It isn't really Berwald's fault, though. He's always been shy and somewhat scary. Ok, maybe 'somewhat' is an understatement.

Tino hardly knows him. When the tall, muscular Swede had invited him to lunch, he hadn't known what to say. And then one thing led to another and they were buying tickets for the train.

Where were they going? That was the question. They hadn't really discussed it.

Berwald is a man of few words and Tino can be quite the talker. Polar opposites. Yet they are sitting beside each other on a train to who-knows-where. Outside, trees parade by in a green blur. Birds struggle to keep up and even the clouds seem to be far behind.

It's all moving so fast.

His brain turns. Tino is thinking of jokes to break the ice. Maybe a compliment would work. But saying, "Oh, Berwald, I like your hair," would only make him even more uncomfortable. A casual remark about the weather won't do. Maybe a 'thank you' for the time he fixed that tear in Tino's shirt.

The fact that Berwald carries a miniature sowing kit in his pocket is pretty cute.

Cute enough to get the best fish in the box.

But he doesn't want a fish…

Tino was just trying to be funny. Could the comment have been taken in a stereotypical way?

He turns around in his seat and takes a deep breath. "Listen, Berwald. I'm sorry if my comment about the fish offended you. I don't think that you should like them just because you're Swedish. Honestly, it was just fun joking. But I un—"

"Tino, stop."

Violet eyes widen as he clutches the box of fish to his chest. "O-ok."

Berwald sighs and adjusts his glasses. "I wasn't offended. Actually, I thought it was kind of…funny."

Tino's smile returns. "Really?"

"Really."

"Then why didn't you want any? You must be hungry."

"Because I made these." Unzipping his backpack, he takes out a small box tied with blue and white ribbon. His face suddenly reddens. "They're cookies."

"Oh, wow, thank you! That is so nice of you." Tino laughs and looks at the box. "And you made these?"

"Yes." The blush deepens. "I was going to give them to you earlier, but…well, I didn't. So here they are now."

"This is so great, Berwald. Your cookies are probably a lot better than these fish! Come on, we can share them."

"Ok." Slowly, he unties the box.

And maybe it's his imagination, but Tino thinks he sees a smile.

Eating cookies on a train is nothing special.

But eating cookies on a train with Berwald Oxenstierna is.


	15. Summer

**A/N: Some Fem!USxUK for the ever mysterious **Guest **reviewer lol. Hope you like it! I will get to the other requests as soon as possible.**

**But please, keep the requests coming! Request and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#15: Summer

Pairing: Fem!USxUK

His green eyes go up and down.

Wow. He never noticed it before. How…summery she is.

Amelia is fit beneath that oversized bomber jacket. Red bathing suit top, blue jean shorts, white threads ticking her thighs. So American, so different from him.

But different is good. Arthur likes change. Kind of.

Chocolate scones instead of vanilla, Earl Grey instead of Breakfast. Those are changes. Small ones, but still…

Water, cold and wet. A stream of it hits him in the face. He coughs.

"B-bloody hell, Amelia!"

Her laughter is loud. Like the summer heat. Orange sun overhead, white clouds dancing in the sky. Arthur still cannot believe he is here. Playing with a garden hose in the hot American sun is still a hazy dream.

Amelia leads him through it. Through water droplets he sees her. Hair sticks to his forehead. Dew on straw.

"Come on, Artie. Have some fun!"

She holds the hose with tanned fingers.

Arthur sees her scarred knuckles. Years in the same hot American sun have done this. Scratching at dirt, black soil on her face.

Playful is an understatement. Amelia is like a little kid. She douses herself with the hose and turns it on Arthur again.

"You're ridiculous, you know that?" He looks at his wet clothes. "See what you've done, Amelia?"

Each chuckle is a sunbeam. "Oh, who cares? Lighten up; it's the first day of summer!" She pokes him in the stomach with the nozzle. "Oooh, Artie, you're jacked. I can see your muscles beneath your shirt."

Now his face is the sun. "S-shut up. You're just cau—"

She nails him right between the eyes. Liquid sunlight.

Maybe he should 'loosen up', like she said.

He smiles. Heat drips down his face. She's there.

Gazing into the fire of her eyes, his smile grows wider. Her skin is glowing in the light, cheeks dull red with sunburn. She was created for this kind of place. The sun and sky shape her body, mind, and soul.

Arthur is grinning like a fool. He knows it, but he doesn't care. This is certainly a change, a good one.

There's a bucket of water next to him. It's a rash decision, he moves and doesn't think.

"So you think I'm pretty fit, huh?" Arthur pulls his shirt over his head and grabs the bucket.

Amelia erupts with laughter. "Woah, Artie! You're making me sweat!"

A flood of sunlight.

They chase each other through the grass. Water flies, sparkles on the still air.

His first summer in America. This is different. But different is good.

Chocolate scones instead of vanilla. Earl Grey instead of Breakfast.

Sun instead of rain.


	16. Mock Revisited

**A/N: I know I've written two FrUK's already, but this is for **angelinthesky-121**. Hope you like it! I have nine requests to finish right now, so I'll be writing all day lol.**

**I will get to EVERY request, so you can request more. Enjoy and please review!**

* * *

Theme#16: Mock Revisited

Pairing: FrancexUK

The debate classroom is almost empty. Almost.

Two hours after the end of the school day, and Arthur is still sitting at his desk. It's been hard work, preparing for the mock trial that will happen on Friday. Why he ever signed up for this, he doesn't know.

_No, you git, you know why._

Afternoon sunlight streams through the blinds. Criss-crossing bars on Arthur's face. He rolls a pen under his foot.

Back and forth over the tile.

It's blue, just like _his _eyes.

Arthur shakes his head.

_Stop it, moron. Don't think about him…about Francis._

Francis Bonnefoy, the golden-haired reason for joining the debate team. What a stupid reason. But Arthur can't help it.

With a flick of his hair and a gorgeous Tudor rose in hand, Francis had taken Arthur's heart.

One day after debate class:

"Good job today, Arthur. You aren't bad. Pretty good, actually."

A roll of his eyes. "Don't mock me, you frog. I know I'm a wretched debater, save me the humiliation."

Francis laughs and leaves against the chalkboard. "Always so defensive. But I'm telling the truth, my friend. You're a good debater. Your defensiveness is quite…charming."

He feels himself blush. "J-just shut up, Francis."

"I will not." He pulls something out of his bag. "You are new to the team, so you do not know. But after every debate, I give a rose to whoever I think was the best. So, this is for you."

"What?" Arthur looks at the rose in Francis' hand. Large and beautiful, a deep crimson. It's a Tudor rose, the rose of his home country. "I, uh, thank you. This is a symbol of England…how—"

"Coincidental? Yes, it is." And then Francis is gone. Arthur swears that he saw him blushing, too.

He still has some dried petals in his pocket. He feels them there. It hadn't really meant much, the incident after class. Just a short conversation. Green leaves, red petals, stinging thorns.

Arthur is afraid to cut himself.

The thorns are awfully sharp.

With a sigh, he leans back in his chair. Green eyes are half-closed in the sunlight.

More shadows on the ground. Bars of blackness. He feels them across his body, cutting straight through his chest.

His chest, his heart.

Thorns stabbing at his nerves. Hate, love, fear, ecstasy.

He closes his eyes.

Another half hour passes. All at once, he feels a presence over him. A deep, dark shadow encompassing his body.

Green eyes open once again. There is Francis, golden hair and all.

"F-Francis, what are you doing here!?" Arthur almost falls out of his chair.

"I know that you stay after school. So I've been looking for you."

"What for?"

"You'll see." He offers out his hand. Outlined in sunbeams, he is on fire. Etched in black lines and shining from within.

Arthur looks at his hand. This isn't some joke. Francis isn't mocking him.

_Oh why now. Isn't this why I joined the debate team?_

He takes Francis' hand, the rose petals still in his pocket.


	17. Lace

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. Enjoy! I've never written this pairing before, and I really like it! Thanks for all of the requests so far, guys. It's great.**

**Enjoy, leave a request. Any pairing, any theme. And please review :). **

* * *

Theme#17: Lace

Pairing: Fem!GreecexFrance

Never let Francis go to the mall alone. Because he will return with a pink Victoria's Secret bag, a grin on his face.

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, he is smiling. The paper bag hides behind his back. He's thoughtful. He's perverted. He's ridiculous. He's hers.

She rolls over, tangling herself in the sheets. Cats yawn and scratch at the comforter. "Good morning, Francis."

"Mon amour, it's two in the afternoon."

"It's nighttime somewhere." Hanna yawns and rubs her eyes. "So, what's up?"

"Oh, not much. I just went shopping."

Like a hint of bahari in tomato sauce, she senses it. The note of cunning in his voice. Or maybe it's his new cologne.

Habit Rouge. Citrus, leather, and vanilla.

Hanna breaths it in. Her chest slowly expands. A cat curls up on her stomach. "Buy anything?"

"Yes, just a little something."

The cat walks up her body. Little paws massage her skin. Tanned flesh beneath the mottled fur and scraping claws.

Francis wishes he was that cat.

He sits on the bed. "Which one is that? Ceres or Antigone?"

"I don't know. Probably a stray."

They keep the balcony doors open all the time. Hanna will sit on the threshold between the inside and out, feeding strays and braiding her hair. Sometimes she and Francis will make love beneath the hot sun. Wrapped up in sheets, they are hidden behind the potted plants.

Poppies, grape hyacinths and dark, red roses. A bouquet of them both.

Now, the sun is high in the sky. Orange beams touch Hanna's face. Her eyes are closing. She's falling back asleep.

Francis smiles. Hanna is so cute when she sleeps. But she can't sleep now. He has something special for her.

"Want to see what I bought?"

"Sure." She doesn't even flinch when the stray cat sits on her face.

Francis pulls out the Victoria's Secret bag. "Ta-daaaa!"

Hanna looks at him from beneath the cat's tail. Her eyes are expressionless. "That's a woman's store, honey. If you wanted new boxers, you could have just gone to Target."

"They aren't for me!" Francis falls onto the bed, laughing. "Though I would look very sexy in one of those lingerie pieces. It is for you, my love. Just a little something special."

Hanna raises the cat's tail. "Is it…lacy?"

"Very."

She sees him wink. A small smile appears on her face. "Show me."

"Of course."

Tissue paper crinkles. A pair of lacy panties appears, followed by an equally lacy bra.

"It's a matching set." Francis grins. "And they're cheetah print. I know how much you love cats, mon amour."

"I do like cats." Hanna grabs the bra. It looks to be her size, and is unpadded and very soft. Francis knows her well.

They lay in the white bed for a few minutes, saying nothing. The fan spins overhead, the sheer curtains rustling in the breeze. She smells his cologne.

Lemony, leathery. She rolls into him and takes a deep breath. "New cologne?"

"Why yes, it is. You have a sharp nose."

"Mhmm." She looks at the bra again and snatches the panties from Francis' hand. "I'll be right back. Wait here."

His grin grows even wider. "I'll wait all day if I have to. Take your time, my love."

Hanna pushes the cat off her face and gets up. Stretching in the sunlight, she could be a cat herself. She stands there, white tank top and white underwear. Her brown hair is messy.

But Francis loves it. He loves her green eyes and her tan skin. She really is gorgeous.

"I'm only doing this because it's cheetah print." She heads to the bathroom. "I'll be back."

"Okay!" Francis lies spread-eagled on the bed. He sighs and closes his eyes.

He wants it to be a surprise.

Going to the mall alone was his greatest idea yet. Maybe he'll do it again. There's a tiger print bra that would look great on Hanna.

And maybe he'll buy himself a little something. There was that Dream Angels lace-trim thong panty…


	18. Snow

**A/N: For **Ayumi Kudou**. Hope you like it! I have quite a bit more requests to complete, but I will get them all done, promise.**

**Keep the requests coming, enjoy, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#18: Snow

Pairing: ChinaxLiechtenstein

The snowflakes look like flower petals. Tiny and white.

They remind her of the lilies back home.

She likes the way her breath comes out like smoke. She gently blows on one of the flakes. Particles of ice dancing on the air. Sure, it snows back home. She'll go skiing and build snowmen out of the powder, but it's nothing like here.

Here, the snow mixes with the lights of the cities. Shanghai sparkles; Beijing is dusted like the top of cake. And she's never been to the Snow World Festival in China.

She stands in the middle of a street. The city of Harbin is alive with ice and multi-colored lights. There are temples and little houses all carved out of ice and snow. Each block a different color.

Hot pink, dark blue, forest green, and every other color she can imagine.

Yao left a few minutes ago. He said he had a surprise for her.

She had smiled. "Take your time. I could look at these beautiful sculptures for hours."

Yao smiled, too. In that soft, shy way that Lili always likes. He brushed back her bangs and kissed her on the forehead. She's just so cute.

Floppy bows, oversized coat, and the scarf that Yao had given her.

Now she pulls on that scarf. It's cold. She covers her mouth with the red silk and blinks a few snowflakes from her eyes.

In the darkness, the lights swirl. On the wet ground, within her green irises. She waits beneath the snowfall, looking at the ice city around her.

She sees a fairy castle.

Pink and silver facets in the dark. Black silhouettes walk in front of it. Like watching a puppet show. Princesses and knights dancing before the castle doors.

Lili hears wheels turning. Spinning around, she sees a horse and carriage. The horses look like shadows.

"Lili, this is your surprise. A carriage ride." Yao is sitting behind the driver, a smile on his face.

"Thank you, Yao! It's like a fairytale." She pulls at the red scarf. "But it must have been very expensive…"

"No, Lili. No worrying about that tonight." He pats the seat next to him. "Now sit next to me. I want you to have fun."

"All right." She climbs into the carriage and snuggles up beside Yao. "Don't forget, I made sandwiches earlier. We can eat them while we ride."

"Sounds good to me. Your cooking is always great, Lili."

They ride around the city. Ice castles glow on either side.

Eating sandwiches and kasknopfle that Lili prepared.

It's still snowing. The flakes look like flower petals. Their breath condenses in the night air. Yao has his arm around Lili. She leans against his chest, looking up at the snow world around her.

A light kiss on her forehead. A soft kiss on his cheek.

Soft like snow, like white flower petals.


	19. Nails

**A/N: For **IrishMaid**. Hope you like it. I'm not sure if "anger management issues" was your requested theme, but this idea just came to me, so sorry if I changed it ^^". I can always write another for these two with that theme. I will get on your other requests as soon as possible. I really enjoyed writing this one, so hope you all enjoy!**

**Request and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#19: Nails

Pairing:RomanoxBelarus

Natalya looks at the moon.

White and swollen. The shadows move across its surface.

Someone once told her that the black shadow is a prisoner trapped within the moon. How often does the prisoner look down? Seeing the world beneath his feet, but never being able to touch. They are not so unlike, she and this nameless prisoner.

She spends hours watching white noise on the TV screen.

She folds up her cardboard boxes, wishing that she had somewhere to go. And when she goes to Ivan's house, he locks the front door. Her fingernails are broken from hours clawing at the wood.

So she goes home. Alone.

Natalya sits on her balcony and looks at the moon. Maybe her fingernails will grow back someday.

Lovino looks at the moon.

Large and bright. He has to squint his eyes.

Grandpa once told him that Diana took care of the moon. The beautiful virgin goddess, dripping with light and inaccessibility. Untouchable. Lovino would look through Grandpa's drawings, taking the ones that depicted Diana naked. And Feliciano would blush and cover his face, running away from a laughing Lovino. Those times were happier, simpler. He wishes he could go back. He wishes he could touch the moon, too. But it's inaccessible to all, including him.

He spends hours eating tomatoes in front of blank TV screen.

He folds up old photographs, wishing he could go back. And when he goes to Antonio's house, he never knocks on the front door. His fingernails are jagged from digging into his palms.

So he goes home. Alone.

Lovino sits on his balcony and looks at the moon. Maybe his fingernails will even out someday.

Both of them look at the moon as they sit on their balcony.

Their balcony.

Theirs…

Amber eyes look at blue ones. They're sitting on the same balcony, looking at the same moon.

Are they really alone?

When Natalya watches white noise, Lovino is in the other room, watching nothing. And when she's folding her cardboard boxes, he's throwing old photos into them. And when she goes to Ivan's house, he goes to Antonio's. And both of them turn away, thinking they're alone.

But they're not.

The ones they can't have, the Earth below and the goddess above, these are the ones they obsess over. Forgetting is hard.

Natalya touches Lovino's hand. "I…uh, I'm sorry I ignore you sometimes."

A hollow laugh. "Honestly, I don't even remember that we live together sometimes."

Sometimes, sometimes. Why can't it be this time? Right now, beneath the moon. Tomato plants grow in cardboard boxes.

Natalya throws her arms around him, crying. "You'll be one with me, won't you, Lovino?"

His fingers entangle in her blonde hair. "Always. You…you won't leave me like that tomato bastard, right?"

"Never."

Natalya and Lovino look at the moon.

They hold each other on the balcony. They can see each other's nails.

Broken and jagged, maybe they'll be fixed someday.

Maybe both of them will be fixed someday.


	20. Cake

**A/N: For **OmegaStarShooter14**. Hope you like it! I'm writing as fast as I can, so expect more updates today. Yay, chapter 20! I'm a fifth of the way to my goal. I feel like I should do something special for this...hmmm, let me know what you guys think I should do.**

**Anyways, keep the requests coming, enjoy, and please review :)**

* * *

Theme#20: Cake

Pairing:RomanoxLiechtenstein

Her face is covered with frosting. Fluffs of white and green smeared across her cheeks. Baking isn't hard. It's just a little challenging, especially with that broken light bulb swinging overhead.

Lili keeps telling Lovino to fix it, but he never does. In all honesty, he never does much of anything.

The crooked gutter outside, the unfinished swing set and the crumbling chimney. Lovino just lies on the couch, eating tomato paste on bread.

So the reason Lili is baking him a cake is unknown to her.

He's a lazy bum. Rolling over in bed, tangled up in sheets, he hogs all of the covers. He takes hours in the bathroom, perfecting his curl. His attempts at doing anything productive always end in disaster.

Painting has never been his thing.

"Hey, Lili. Come look at this."

She'll walk to the living room and see him sitting on a stool. He'll be shirtless, like usual, and brandishing a paintbrush.

"What do you think this is?"

"Uhh, some kind of abstract art meant to convey feelings of hopelessness and loss. It's very, very good, Lovino!"

He'll stare at her, like usual, the edges of his mouth twitching. "It's supposed to be that banana. The one sitting on the table."

"Oh, sorry, I must have something in my eye." Then she'll laugh uncomfortably and kiss him on the cheek. Paint will rub off on her lips.

He can never keep the paint on the canvas, can he?

So, once again, Lili is baffled by the fact that she is baking him a cake. Her lazy, uncreative, tomato loving boyfriend.

It is a special cake, too. Vanilla on the inside with Amedei Porcelana Extra Dark Chocolate filling. She had to order a bar of that chocolate online, then melt it in the microwave. Pure Italian chocolate, a single bar cost her $16.50. Normally, she would never buy something so expensive.

But it's for Lovino, and that's enough.

The green and white frosting is thick and rich. She has to cover the sides now.

Just a few more minutes. She's almost done.

The cake looks beautiful. Lili backs away, a smile on her face. "He's going to love this!"

She cuts him an extra big slice and goes into the living room.

But it's empty.

"Lovino?"

Dry paint cans are on the floor. A drawing that looks like chicken scratch is on the easel. Silly Lovino, always trying to be as good as his brother.

He doesn't to be like Feliciano. Lili loves Lovino because he is Lovino.

She searches for him in the bedroom, the laundry room, even the bathroom.

"Lovino! Why are you hiding from me?"

A sudden crash catches her attention. Outside, a ladder falls into the grass. Lili runs out to yard and looks up at the roof.

"Lovino, what are you doing?"

"Uh, just trying to fix the gutter." He's on the edge of the roof. Hammer in hand, nails held between his teeth.

Lili laughs and holds up the slice of cake. "That's so sweet of you. You never try to fix things."

"I know. I just thought that maybe I'd mix up, you know? Wait, is that cake?" His eyes widen.

"Yes, it's for you. I just finished making it."

"Wow, uh, thanks." He looks down at the fallen ladder. "Could you pick up that ladder for me? I'm kind of stuck."

"Of course."

In a few minutes, they are sitting in the grass and sharing a piece of cake. She kisses Lovino on the cheek. Frosting rubs off on her lips.

He can never keep the frosting on the cake, can he?

But he's Lovino. And she loves him, her lazy, uncreative, best boyfriend in the world.


	21. Laugh

**A/N: For **Writer-at-heart**. Enjoy :). Thanks for all of the requests and reviews! I'm having a lot of fun writing all of these drabbles.**

**Request and please review!**

* * *

Theme#21: Laugh

Pairing: Hong KongxIceland

Kaoru doesn't like it when Emil cries.

The tears are so rare and scarce, yet they still bother him. Droplets of water sliding down Emil's cheeks, curving at his chin. His skin is so pale beneath the cloudy sky.

They are lying on the roof. School isn't over, but Kaoru doesn't really care. Emil's tears are more important than calculus.

During lunch, Emil had run off, trying to cover his face. Surprising for a boy that was always so calm. Kaoru has always liked that about him. An outer shell made of ice. An inner core made of fire.

Emil is cold to touch. But within, he is warm. Kaoru knows this now more than ever.

Because the tears are not the product of bullying, like they usually are.

Today, Emil is crying for his dead puffin.

It happened yesterday. Come home from school, grab a bag of licorice from the pantry and prepare to share it with Mr. Puffin. But Mr. Puffin was dead on the floor.

Emil loved that puffin. He still does.

"So, you wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." Emil lies spread-eagled on the roof. His legs dangle over the edge.

White hair flutters against his forehead.

Kaoru sighs and rests his chin on his knees. "Hey, want to hear a joke? It's pretty funny, and it's about that volcano that erupted in your home country."

"Thanks, but I don't think now is the time."

They lock eyes. Light brown on violet. Both of their gazes are expressionless.

Kaoru sighs again. "You're right. It's a bit early for Iceland volcano jokes. We should wait awhile for the dust to settle."

…

Silence.

Then Emil covers his face with his hands. "You are such an idiot."

"I try."

They sit in silence for a few moments more. Kaoru can't tell if Emil is sobbing or laughing behind those hands.

He notices a tear lingering on Emil's cheek. The urge to wipe it away is too much. So he lies across Emil, draped like a towel.

"What are you doing? It's too hot for this!" Emil blushes and tries to push him off.

"I just wanted to do this." He flicks the tear away. "Done."

"Oh…well, thanks." His cheeks are still red.

"Sure."

They lay in silence for a while longer. On the school roof, the wind is blowing. Gray clouds roll overhead. Emil's legs hang over the side. Kaoru's foot does, too. Brown and white hair tremble in the breeze.

Emil suddenly grabs Kaoru's hand.

"Thanks for…making me laugh. That joke was kinda funny."

Kaoru nods. Their fingers are wound together. Feels kind of…nice. Cold and warm at the same time.

Just like Emil's home country of fire and ice.

"No problem. I'd rather see you laugh than cry."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing…" Kaoru closes his eyes, his cheek pressed against Emil's stomach. "Nothing at all."


	22. Tears

**A/N: For **MusicalPoetess**. Hope you like it. So, I still have quite a bit more requests to write, but feel free to keep on requesting!**

**Enjoy and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#22: Tears

Pairing: GermanyxPrussia

Illusions are fake. Sought after figments of a lost imagination. But we cannot help staring at them in wonder.

Something so fake provokes curiosity. Gilbert knows this. When he looks at Lowenburg Castle, he's filled with curiosity.

A fantasy castle built for illusions. Towers with dark gray roofs, stone walls with moss climbing up the side. He hasn't been here since the war.

His home country gone, his people driven from their ancestral land. He has nothing now. Just two eyes to watch the people wander. Just two ears to hear the wind blowing through this ruined castle. Just two…

No, wait. He doesn't have two hearts. It's hard to tell if he even has one.

Because it has been ripped from his chest.

He sighs and lies down on the grass. This part of Germany is so green. There are trees all around him. And with the castle in the distance, he could be in the middle of a fairytale.

So many German fairytales end this way. In sadness and isolation.

Sitting here, beneath leaves of evergreen, Gilbert wishes he was in a fairytale.

Maybe then, the castle would not be in ruins. Maybe then, he could see Ludwig again.

He closes his eyes. A tear slides down his face.

Illusions are fake, but what are dreams? Gilbert's in a forest. Wild and tangled. Something is different. The trees almost look alive.

There are deer running across the fallen leaves.

Gilbert starts walking. Towards what, he doesn't know. Or maybe he does. The castle is close. All of its romantic splendor shining through the trees.

He runs. It's there, waiting for him. The towers, the walls, the ivy, the—

Ludwig?

Gilbert grabs hold of a tree trunk. He falls against it, breathing hard. Red eyes are wide.

Standing in front of him is Ludwig. His hair isn't gelled back; his eyes are soft and kind.

Wow, this part of Germany is so…beautiful.

Before the war, both of them were beautiful.

"Ludwig!" Gilbert rushes forward and throws his arms around him.

Back then, this would be a joke. Just to bother Ludwig, he would tackle him to the ground. And he would be laughing, too.

He isn't now. He's crying.

Together, they fall into the grass. Gilbert buries his face in his Ludwig's shoulder and hugs him tighter. This must be a dream, the awesome Prussia never cries.

"Ludwig. I wish we could go back, restart the story, change everything."

"Me, too."

Gilbert shudders at the sound of his voice. He hasn't heard it in so long. Biting down on his knuckle, he tries to stop crying.

"We'll be all right. I promise."

"Maybe." Gilbert attempts a smile. "Maybe they'll bring me back. Un-dissolve Prussia."

Ludwig laughs softly. "Un-dissolve isn't a word."

"I know…"

Gilbert smiles into Ludwig's neck. This may be a dream, but it certainly feels real.

They lie in the grass. Soft leaves beneath them, hard sky above. But they aren't a part of this. They are their own entity. White hair mixed with blonde. Red eyes tangled up with blue.

They exists someplace else.

Not here, not in this dream. It feels so real, though…so real…

Gilbert opens his eyes.

Ludwig is hovering over him. Blonde hair is gelled back; blue eyes are hard and cold.

This part of Germany is beautiful, too.

Gilbert looks up at him. "This is a dream."

Ludwig shakes his head and hugs him. "No, Gil, it isn't."

They exist in reality now.


	23. Evasion

**A/N: For **Darkarts Magician**. Hope you like it. Russia's creepiness is really fun to write xD.**

**Well, enjoy, everyone. Request and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#23: Evasion

Pairing: Fem!LithuaniaxRussia

Tori is not very good at hiding from Ivan.

It is their weekly game of hide and seek. She crouches in the closet, listening for his heavy footsteps. His coats are hung on metal wires. They smell like sunflowers and…something else.

She crinkles her nose, her stomach turning.

Does his coat seriously smell like blood? Blood?! Tori sighs and hugs her knees. Why did she have to get involved with such a Russian?

This is the question she asks herself every day. Not that Ivan is mean. He's just a little different. His love language is a little different, too.

Tori appreciates a good book, a quiet talk in her second-hand car.

Ivan appreciates a good torture movie, creepy whispering in the middle of the night.

That's one thing Tori can't stand. Three in the morning and he'll roll on top of her, muttering weird randomness in her ear.

"You're so cute when you smile, Tori. I think I would love to icepick it off your face sometimes. Keep it in a jar beside my bed. It'll be pretty, like a sunflower in a vase…"

"W-What?!"

What does 'icepick it off her face' even mean?

She'll scoot away from him, almost falling off the bed. Clutching the sheets with white knuckles. Her eyes wide.

"Ok. Night night." Then Ivan will pull her towards him. Like a child snuggling a teddy bear. And he'll fall asleep, a smile on his face.

He means well, kind of. Maybe. Or maybe not.

Tori doesn't know. All she knows is that he is looking for her now. She is stuck in the closet with coats that smell like sunflowers and blood.

But sunflowers are nice.

Light and airy, she tastes it on her tongue. The coats are like Ivan. They contain two smells. He contains two personalities.

The nice part that snuggles her. The bad part that chases her through the house.

Together, they make him. A sunflower smeared with blood.

Tori covers her face with her hand and smiles.

How does she love him? She welcomed him into her heart a while ago.

Because she knows that he is really a good person.

You can always wipe the blood off the petals.

"Tori!"

She hears Ivan's voice.

"Tori, where are you?"

There's no point in hiding. He'll find her eventually. Why not switch things up?

"I'm in here, Ivan." She stands up and tucks herself behind the coats.

The closet doors open. He's smiling like usual. "Oh, Tori, you aren't a coat. Why are you hiding?"

"No reason." She peeks out from behind a sleeve. "Do you need something?"

Ivan shakes his head. "Not really. I just wanted to give you a gift."

"Gift?"

"Yep."

Soft cotton of his scarf is suddenly around her neck. He pulls her forward and kisses her hard.

Mouth, teeth, tip of the tongue. Cold as ice, soft as snow.

Tori tastes all of him. The sunflowers and the blood. With a swipe of her tongue, she wipes the blood off the petals.

Because you can always wipe it away.

He smiles as they kiss.

Tori smiles, too. Evading Ivan is hard. Evading her love for him is even harder.


	24. Tattoo

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. Hope you like it! I really got carried away with this one ^^" haha, but it was just so much fun to write. I'm back from my trip, so I'll be updating daily again.**

**Enjoy, keep the requests coming, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#24: Tattoo

Pairing: AustriaxSpain

Antonio sees it when Roderich jumps into the pool.

A quick dive, he slips into the water like a knife into butter. His swim-trunks slip back. Drawstrings tangle as he slices through the air.

Hold his breath.

Water droplets in his brown hair.

Eyes squinting in the sun.

The reflection off the surface is blinding. Roderich can see his face, his body as he heads for the water.

What he sees, a pale, somewhat talented piano player taking a mediocre dive.

What Antonio sees, a striking, piano prodigy taking a perfect dive. A perfect ten.

And he also sees something else. A red Cross of Burgundy just above Roderich's hipbone. When did the Austrian get a tattoo?

Roderich hits the water. There isn't even a splash.

Why must he be so perfect at everything? Antonio was hoping for a splash. He leans back in his chair. From this angle, he can look at Roderich from under his sunglasses. He needs to do some more looking if he wants to figure this out.

The Cross of Burgundy is beneath the water. Roderich swims laps across the pool. Brown hair is slick backed. The muscles move under white skin.

Antonio could watch him all day. But he has something to figure out. A mystery.

The answer lies beneath the water, right on Roderich's hip.

"Watch out, amigo!" Popping up from his chair, he runs to the pool.

Feet slide across the wet concrete, the sunlight splattered across his face. Antonio can see his reflection in the puddles as he heads for the edge.

What he sees, an immature, tomato loving Spaniard who can't even keep his balance.

What Roderich sees, a childish yet lovable man who slides around with grace.

But he would never say that, obviously.

He retreats deeper into the water. A pair of violet eyes floats on the surface. A brown curl falls in front of his face.

With a laugh, Antonio jumps in. It's a sloppy cannonball that sends up a wave of water.

"Great, now my clothes are probably wet!" Roderich rubs his eyes. "Stop acting a five-year-old, Antonio. Antonio?"

The Spaniard isn't listening. He's under water. Bubbles form next to his face. It's all blue down here. Dark blue in the seven-foot deep end. Light blue in the four-foot shallows.

The piano prodigy is bathed in blue. The keys of his body, each bone, each toe and finger, all of it painted blue. Touch his abdomen with nervous fingers. A high C makes the water ripple. An F, a G, notes that Antonio cannot discern. A melody begins inside his head.

Nocturne. The first song he heard Roderich play.

It's all in his brain. Seeing the hands move across the keys, eyes closed. Now his hands move across the keys of Roderich, looking for the Cross of Burgundy.

How much longer can he hold his breath?

There it is, the tattoo. Red on white skin.

Antonio bursts out of the water. "¡Lo encontré! Tell me why you have it, Roderich!"

"What?! Have what?"

"The tattoo!" He grins and tickles Roderich's side. "Seriously, man, I never thought you were the tattoo type!"

"S-Stop that! Honestly, the indecency of it all!" He backs into the pool wall. Slippery tile against his drenched head.

"Come on, tell me!"

"I don't know what you're talking about…"

He looks into the water, a blush spreading across his face.

Red just like a tomato.

So cute. Antonio goes to pinch his cheek. "Antonio, I said stop it! I-I don't have a tattoo…"

"Yes, you do, I've got my finger on it. It's a red Cross of Burgundy, which is muy extraño because that is a symbol of my country!"

"I, uh…" Roderich looks away. He sighs and touches the hand that touches his tattoo.

Antonio smiles softly. "Tell me, I won't laugh."

His voice is quiet. "It was just a lapse in judgment that resulted in an unfortunate decision to visit the local tattoo parlor."

"Ok, I know you like to drink." Antonio rolls his eyes. "But why this tattoo, why this symbol?"

"I told you, it was a lapse in judgment, nothing more."

"I don't think so." The Spaniard's voice is singsong, his fingers dancing up the crimson tattoo. "I think you got it for a reason…for a certain somebody…"

Raise of the eyebrows, tilt of the head. He's smiling like an idiot.

Roderich is trying to get out of the pool. But he's pinned. "No, you've got it wrong. It's nothing. Now leave me alone."

Antonio sighs. "Fine, mi amigo. I'll leave you alone. But not before the proper Spanish farewell."

He kisses Roderich on both cheeks and swims away. It's quick.

Pop.

Pop.

And then he's gone.

Roderich wants to melt into the tile. His face is still tomato red. His hand is on his side.

He feels the tattoo beneath his fingers and starts to wonder. Maybe…

"No." He shakes his head. "Just a lapse in judgment, that's all it is…"


	25. Stories

**A/N: For **Writer-at-heart**. I just got back from my trip to Epcot yesterday, so that's where this came from. Epcot's World Showcase is like one big Hetalia party xD.**

**Anyways, hope you like it. Enjoy everyone, keep requesting, and please review :)!**

* * *

Theme#25: Stories

Pairing: NorwayxDenmark

"How many in your party?"

"Two."

"Row one, please."

"Thanks." Mathias makes his way to the front row, dragging an expressionless Lukas behind him. How the Norwegian isn't excited is beyond him. After all, they're in his country, surrounded by Vikings and trolls.

At least, they are kind of in his country. If the World Showcase at Epcot counts as the globe, then this makeshift Norway can pass as the real thing. And yet, Lukas doesn't appear to be happy. He just stands in line, looking at the massive mural on the wall and occasionally touching his Nordic Cross barrette.

Mathias laughs and jokes. He can't wait to buy a beer in one of those souvenir cups.

Some teenager bumps into Lukas. He sways forward, saying nothing. It's not really a big deal. He's too busy staring at the far end of the mural.

Dark green trees swathed in blackness. Leaves are shaped like claws, trees have faces, and men sit on a Cliffside. They're telling stories to one another. A campfire burns in front of them.

Lukas likes this part of the painting. It's mysterious. Shrouded in mist.

Mathias is busy glaring at the teenager. "Hey, get back in your spot, man. You hit my best friend."

"Best friend…" Lukas repeats the word softly.

The kid, who can't be more than sixteen, backs up. "S-sorry! It was an accident!"

"Good." Mathias turns around and taps the man in front of him. "Get a move on! There's a big gap in the line!"

Sighing, Lukas grabs Mathias by his tie and pulls him back. "Stop being bossy."

"I'm not! I'm just being efficient. See, now we're moving twice as fast!" He nudges Lukas and bursts out laughing.

Short blonde hair shakes when he laughs. That hair is wild and unkempt.

Kind of like the trees at the edge of the mural. Lukas likes that. He wishes they could sit together around a fire and tell stories.

And now they are at the front of the line.

"How many in your party?"

Lukas hears the employee talking. No wait, the 'cast member', as they are called in Epcot.

"Two." Mathias' voice is so authoritative. Without even meaning to, he still sometimes sounds like the King of Northern Europe he used to be.

Lukas likes hearing about that time. The stories of Mathias' past are interesting. Not as interesting as Norse myths, but still pretty cool.

"Row one, please."

He feels Mathias grab his arm. He's dragged to the front row. It's a small Viking ship. They are at the bow. This sure brings back memories.

A story about his time sailing the seas.

But that will have to wait. Now, they are riding Maelstrom. Before the boat slips into darkness, Mathias leans back against the seat and stretches his arm out.

It goes across the length of the seat. Is he trying to put his arm around Lukas? Is he just resting?

Who knows?

But Mathias called him his 'best friend'.

Inches away from encroaching darkness. Mathias leans over. "Hey, you've hardly said a word today. Aren't you having a good time in Norway?"

"Yes."

"Then why have you been ignoring me?"

Hmm, best friends don't lean in so close. Inside, Lukas smiles. "I haven't been ignoring you; I've been prioritizing you. Now watch the ride. Look, I can see Odin up ahead."

Mathias is oblivious as usual. He taps his leg excitedly, that wild blonde hair shaking even more.

A Norwegian and a Dane riding Maelstrom in Disney's Epcot. This is a story Lukas will never forget. He'll archive it away with the best of Norse mythology, the epic tale of Mathias and Lukas, two 'best friends' that explored Norway together.


	26. Hangover

**A/N: For **Angleterre97**. I know I just posted a DenmarkxNorway, but I promised I would post this today ^^. Hope you all like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#26: Hangover

Pairing: DenmarkxNorway

Lukas' birthday was three days ago. The seventeenth of May, a perfect spring day filled with…nothing.

Because Mathias forgot Lukas' birthday.

Someone kill him now. No, seriously, put him out of his misery. Last night, he drowned his regrets in alcohol. And now he pays the price. Lying spread-eagled on the bed, he looks up at the ceiling fan. Sheets wrapped around his foot, his body tangled up in red fabric.

He bought these red sheets last week. They're loud and bright, just like him.

Mathias rolls over and buries his face in a pillow.

It's Lukas's pillow. He can tell. It smells like sandalwood and purple heather. There's an iciness that hangs about this side of the bed. Mathias breaths it in and his head spins.

Maybe it's chill of Norway, maybe it's his hangover. Either way, he can feel his mind floating away. Fan blades slice through the air. The sound machine hums with Lukas' favorite noise, waves crashing against a cliff face.

Mathias wants to melt into the pillowcase. Like ice in summer, he wants to fall apart. Bit by bit, molecule by molecule.

The scent of Norway will slowly pull him apart.

His head is throbbing. Drinking all night, something he seriously regrets doing. But he regrets forgetting even more. How could he forget Lukas' birthday?

There are footsteps coming from the hall. It's him. Mathias recognizes the sound of his socks on the hardwood. The pair of socks Mathias had given him. Soft wool, colored red, white, and blue.

He pulls the sheets over his head, trying to hide. Lukas can't see him like this. Mathias was once the King of Northern Europe. Now he's the king of hangovers and unmade beds. The king of giving socks and hiding under the covers.

"Hey."

Lukas's voice almost makes him flinch. He's been discovered. All is lost.

"Ok, guess you're not there. Bye."

The softs hit the hardwood. Wait, he's leaving?!

Mathias bursts out of the sheets. "What's up with that? You're not even going to check on me?"

"You didn't say hello, so I figured…"

"You figured? Come on, you knew I was here." He cocks his head and does his best puppy eyes. "I guess my best friend doesn't care about me anymore."

Lukas sighs. "You're so dense, light bends around you. Now go brush your hair. It's a mess."

Mathias grins. "It's always a mess."

Another sigh. His shoulders go up and down. "Here." He hands Mathias a cup of water and an aspirin. "Take it. You'll feel better."

"Wow, thanks! How'd you know?"

Lukas gives him this look like 'don't I always know?' and then turns towards the bedroom door.

Soft wool on hardwood. Halfway to the hall, he stops. "And don't worry about my birthday. You're still my…best friend."

He leaves quickly after.

Mathias is smiling so wide, his face might break. He leans back against Lukas' pillow, snuggling into the sheets.

Closing his eyes, he hears it. The sound of woolen socks on the floor. Red, white, and blue.


	27. Space

**A/N: For **IrishMaid**. Hope you like it.**

**Keep requesting, enjoy, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#27: Space

Pairing: Fem!AmericaxRussia

Amelia spins around in the swivel chair. There's a two-liter of Coke sitting on the control panel. A half-eaten box of pizza on the floor.

It's 1969, and Amelia just landed on the moon.

Well, technically she didn't. Physically, she's still on Earth. But her people are up there, looking down at the world. The broadcast is over; the famous words have already been spoken. She celebrated with NASA, downed another two bottles of Coke, and watched as all those at Mission Control went home.

Amelia doesn't go home. This is her home. The walls, the floors, the thousands of buttons on the panels, all of these are hers. As long as she is in her country, she is home. So tonight, NASA is where she will reside. It's a good thing the scientists are so smart. Looking at all of the buttons, she knows she would never be able to figure it out.

She puts her feet up on the control panel and leans back in the chair. She runs her tongue over her lips, tasting the last drop of Coca-Cola. Sticky and sweet, it reminds her of something.

Blood, maybe. Or something else…

"Congratulations."

Now that's a voice she hasn't heard in a long time. But how could she forget it?

"Long time no see, Ivan." Leaning her head back, she looks at him. He's upside down in her vision. "You know, you're not really supposed to be here. Cold War, remember?"

He laughs. Sounds like clinking metal or gnashing teeth. Ivory on ivory. "The Soviet Union doesn't need me all the time. Besides, it's just our bosses that aren't friends. We can still talk."

"Haha, that's a good joke." Amelia rolls her eyes and smiles. "So, what do you want?"

"I've just come to say congratulations on your moon landing." Ivan shrugs. "I guess you beat us."

"Yep, I sure did."

"Well, the Soviet Union still put the first manmade object on the moon."

"Whatever! That was ten years ago." Amelia unscrews the Coke bottle and takes a sip. "So, you want some?"

"Can I add something to it?" Ivan takes out a bottle of vodka, one that he always carries with him.

Amelia has seen it before. The night the Second World War ended…buried deep in her sorrow and regret…Ivan sitting next to her in the dark.

That was a two-faced night, a coin with double sides.

Ivan beside her, a war behind her. And uncertainty in front of her.

Now the bottle is back. It sits on the control panel. Drops of vodka swirl within the two-liter Coke.

They sit and talk for a while. They talk about their bosses and the war. And when the bottle is empty, Amelia sighs and lays her head on the control panel.

"That was a nice change."

"Yeah, much better than trying to rip each other's throats out." Ivan cracks a smile. "Though sometimes I would love to tear your voice box out. Americans talk so much."

Amelia laughs. "Then why don't you shut me up?"

"Ok."

Ivan shuts her up with a kiss. It's quick, brief and then it's gone.

Just like a falling star.

And for a moment, she's the one in space, walking on the moon. She sees the Earth on the horizon. No countries, no war, just one planet.

And now she'll say congratulations to everyone, because this is an accomplishment for humankind.


	28. Fragile

**A/N: For **IggyChu**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :)**

* * *

Theme#28: Fragile

Pairing: Tsundere!EnglandxChina

It sits on a stand, just behind the clear glass. Blue eyes are reflected like twin fish in a pond. Koi fish skimming the surface. Their scales shimmer when they swim into a sunbeam. Eyes darting, tails entwining…

_Dammit, I'm thinking about HIM…_

Arthur rolls his eyes and bangs his forehead against the cabinet door.

_Ow, that hurt. And now the glass is smudged. That's just great. I just cleaned it, too._

Doesn't matter, he'll just have to clean it again. Because he has to keep this cabinet spotless. Inside, sitting on a stand, is his prize.

An eighteenth century blue and white dragon plate. Straight from China, authentic and antique. This is best thing he's ever gotten from China.

The worst thing he ever got was Yao.

In need of a flatmate, Arthur had foolishly posted an ad in the paper. One with his phone number and everything, even a brief sentence about his preferences.

A description of the location and amenities, then this:

Wanted: flatmate. Will be paying half the rent. Preferably someone neat who enjoys a cup of tea, a good book, and is a relatively decent cook.

If interested, contact Arthur Kirkland.

And there it was…his phone number. Arthur whole-heartedly regrets publishing those numbers in the newspaper.

The only person who called was Yao Wang.

An organized guy who happens to loves tea, a few of the best English classics, and he is an amazing cook.

Sounds great, right? A flatmate that does the dishes and cooks like a professional chef, almost inconceivable in this present age.

But nothing is ever perfect.

And Yao has one flaw.

He drives Arthur insane.

Arthur never wanted this. This…feeling. A feeling of uncontrollable love and hate. His flat is full of Chinese imports. Yao is one import he wants to get rid of.

Or maybe not. Yao is like the dragon plate inside the cabinet. Arthur stares at it through the glass. He wants to shatter the door into bits, cutting his hand on the shards, blood dripping down his wrist. And then he'll grab the plate and marvel at its beauty. But he can't take the plate off its stand. It might break.

Antique plates are fragile. Arthur isn't good around fragile things.

He sighs and bangs his against the glass. Over and over again. This is pointless.

Stupid Yao and his stupid smile. His stupid hair, so black and shiny. His stupid face, body, hands, feet, legs…his stupid everything! That panda is stupid, too.

Technically, it isn't Yao's yet. Arthur bought it at the corner toy store. He's been hiding it under his bed for the past week. Why did he buy it?

What demon possessed him to buy it?!

He saw it, thought of Yao, and immediately purchased it. And now it haunts his dreams. Just like the dragon plate behind the glass.

_No, stop it! Stop thinking about that bloody panda, you idiot. I hate Yao, I hate him and he knows it. I wish he would go away, no matter how good his cooking—_

Someone grabs him from behind. Arthur's eyes widen. What's happening? Is there a burglar in the flat?

Oh wait…it's HIM.

"W-What are you doing, Yao? I thought you were cleaning."

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his grasp. Why is Yao hugging him, again?

"I was. And when I was cleaning under your bed, I found something. This panda is so cute, is it a present for someone?"

"Uh, no. Why would you think that?"

"Because it was under your bed. Looks like you were hiding it."

Arthur can feel his face reddening. "No, I was most certainly not hiding it."

Yao raises his eyebrows. "Ok. Well, would you mind if I borrowed it for a while? It would look cute in my room."

"Sure. I mean, I don't care about that dumb bear. It's just a stupid panda. In fact, I don't care if you keep it forever."

He feels Yao smiling into his hair. Seriously?

"Thank you." Then he gives Arthur a hug and goes back to cleaning.

Arthur is stuck staring at the dragon plate again. His face is scarlet, his teeth are gritted. Groaning in frustration, he once again bangs his head against the glass.

But as he looks at the plate balancing on its stand, he can't help but smile.

Maybe he isn't so bad with fragile things after all.


	29. Claim

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. I used the name Kaori for Fem!South Korea like you said ^^. I made them kids because I thought it would be cute. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, keep requesting, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#29: Claim

Pairing: AmericaxFem!South Korea

Instead of doing schoolwork, the students split into groups. The girls on one side of the room, the boys on the other. It's so cliché.

One half talks about shopping while they stick fake fingernails on with Elmer's glue. One half talks about gaming while plugging their Gameboys into the wall. But this is third grade, so what do you expect?

Kaori sits on top of her desk. Right in the middle of the room, she could go either way. Girls with their curls, boys with their toys. She looks back and forth.

Where will she stake a claim today? In the world of mindless gossip or the land of exciting video games?

Quite the quandary.

Her teacher is a clueless one. Instead of teaching, she lets the kids have "free time". Kaori doesn't know where to go.

Hang out with the boys or the girls…

Then she sees him. Alfred F. Jones is battling in the corner of the room.

She smiles, a grin from ear to ear. Third grade boys may suck, but Alfred is different. Golden hair, blue eyes, cute face, and those adorable spectacles that hang sideways on his nose. Oh yeah, Kaori knows where to go. She hops off her desk and runs over to where he sits.

His back is to her. His shoulders, strong and wide for a kid his age, shake as he smashes buttons.

"Al, stop doing that! Hitting it over and over again won't make you win!" Arthur, the boy he's battling, is gritting his teeth in frustration. "I said stop it!"

"Put a sock in it." Alfred rolls his eyes and hits the buttons even faster. "Am I annoying you, Artie, huh? Huh?"

"I'm done!" Arthur stamps his feet. He gets out of his chair and thrusts the Gameboy into Kaori's hands. "Will you finish this battle for me? I can't take it anymore!"

"Who ya talking to?" Alfred turns around. "Oh, Kaori, it's you! What's up?"

"Hey, Alfred." That grin is still plastered on her face. "You care if I play? Artie's giving me the Gameboy."

"That's great! He sucks, anyways. Get outta the way, Artie!"

"Fine!" Arthur walks off, his hands balled into fists.

Alfred pats the empty seat. "Sit down, Kaori. Let's play."

"Awesome!" She practically jumps into the chair. She absolutely loves video games, and getting to play them with Alfred is even better.

They start playing. Alfred's Snorlax against Arthur's Marill. Except Kaori is playing now.

Marill…this is Arthur's prize Pokemon? Really?

But maybe Kaori can make this work.

Water gun. Rest. Tackle. Rest. It's a never ending cycle. Alfred keeps using rest. This battle will never end…

And then it's over, and Alfred's eyes are wide.

"You…you beat me…"

Kaori can't help but blush. She crosses her arms and smiles. "Yep, I guess I did."

"You beat me…you beat the hero!"

"Yep!" She jumps out of the chair and stands with her hands on her hips. "Guess I'm the hero now!"

Now Alfred is blushing. "No way…you're a…"

"A what?"

"A girl!" He stands up and points at Kaori. "Just a silly girl. And my Snorlax was just a little tired, that's all and—"

He trips over the charger and falls forward. Down, down, down and straight into Kaori. Straight to her lips.

Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow! He just kissed her! Both of their faces are bright red.

This is third grade, and Kaori just won this Pokemon battle. She stakes a claim in the exciting land of video games, and never ever wants to go back.

Never ever.


	30. Fever

**A/N: For **Catatonic Inspiration **who requested via email. Hope you like it! Since the last drabble was cute, this one will be kinda sexy. I had a lot of fun with this one xD.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review!**

* * *

Theme#30: Fever

Pairing: UkrainexMale!Hungary

Mouths mold together in the darkness, contouring to the supple lines and feelings of teeth and tongue. It is the effort of two, as both of them fall into the kiss. Katyusha clutches Gary's shoulder and closes her eyes, hoping that this will never have to end. In an act of desperation, she draws him closer, so close that they stand abdomen to abdomen. Tears begin to fall. Thick eyelashes glistening, eyeliner smudging.

Beneath the black lights, they're in a moving picture show. Bodies move in frames.

People are dancing. Hand in hand, chest to chest. Sweaty skin against tight clothes. Caught up in the fever of the club. People are dying on the dance floor.

Katyusha is a victim. She's always been a crybaby; her brother teases her all the time. So her tears are expected. She needs to pull herself together. Right now she's melting in Gary's arms. Why can't she just dance like everyone?

Of course, the music, the lights, and Gary's presence would overwhelm her. When he dragged her here, she was a little apprehensive. Dancing makes her back hurt.

Gary had stared at her, smirking. "No, your back hurts 'cause of your boobs."

She felt herself blush. "Stop staring."

"How can I not? Now let's dance."

Now they're kissing in the middle of the writhing crowd. Gary slips his hand up her shirt. She wraps her leg around his.

His teeth tug at her lip. Hands through her platinum hair. Her fingers through his ponytail. This isn't too bad. Dancing might not be her thing, but this…

Something breaks them apart.

"Hey, hottie." A girl with red eyes has pushed her way through the crowd. She leans against Gary, fingers dancing across his arm. She is completely ignoring Katyusha. "You wanna have some real fun? I'm an awesome dancer." Up on tiptoe, she whispers in his ear. "I'm awesome at other things, too."

Gary tries to back up. But there's nowhere to go. A split second after the words leave the red-eyed girl's mouth, and Katyusha is already prickling with anger.

Ok, the crybaby has to go. It's time for fearsome Katyusha to unsheathe her claws.

"Excuse me, he's with me. So why don't you find someone else?"

Roll of red eyes. "I don't wanna date him. Relax." She turns to Gary. "Is this clingy bitch holding you back, baby?"

Now Gary is prickling with anger. "What did you just call her?! No one talks to my girlfriend like that!"

And then he's brandishing a frying pan. Where he keeps that thing, Katyusha will never know. In his back pocket, in his pants? But who really cares?

She'll try to figure it out later tonight.

Gary smacks the annoying, red-eyed girl with the pan. Katyusha has had enough of this girl. She pounces.

Both of them are on the floor. Gary continues to smack, Katyusha crushes the girl with her assets.

Huh, maybe having giant breasts isn't so bad.

"Now go annoy someone else!" Gary stands up and takes a deep breath. He offers his hand to Katyusha. "Let's get back to dancing."

"Fine by me."

They melt into the crowd. The red-eyed girl is left on the floor. No one even notices her. When she wakes up, she'll be seeing stars.

Maybe Katyusha and Gary went a little overboard. Whatever.

No one makes on move on her man.

And no one ever talks to his girl like that.

They dance into the night, hand in hand and face to face. Katyusha smiles. They really should go dancing more often.


	31. Mend

**A/N: For **xiao mu dan**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :)**

* * *

Theme#31: Mend

Pairing: JapanxChina

The elevator music makes Yao sleepy. He leans against the wall. Dark eyes rove across the floor. The tile is white, blinding. He can see his reflection.

A name tag is stuck to his shirt. Long brown hair is unbrushed. Circles under his eyes are deep purple. They remind him of the Japanese irises that grow outside his house…

Not Yao's house…_his _house. Kiku's. It's small with a garden out back. The cherry blossom trees are in full bloom right now. Petals float down like snowflakes. The grass is painted pink and white. On a normal day, they would be lying beneath the branches.

Kiku laying one way, Yao the other. Their heads next to each other. And the petals would fall on their faces, their eyes. Pastel eyelids fringed in black. They would slip into Kiku's hair. Yao would look at him, sideways in his vision, and pull the flowers from his dark locks.

The air is full of pink snowflakes. Yao's head is full of light. Darkness, too. The darkness in those deep black eyes. Kiku's eyes.

On a normal day, they would be lying beneath the red-hot sun.

But today isn't a normal day. Yao wishes it was.

The elevator dings. His eyes snap open. That music sure is soothing. Fitting for a hospital. It could lull anyone to sleep, even if they're lying on their death bed…

Well, that would be the point, wouldn't it?

So maybe the music is unfitting. Because who feels calm in a hospital?

No one. That's who.

The doors slide open. Yao makes his way down the hall. Straight, then right, then out into the main room. Where nurses sit behind a desk and run back and forth between patients.

He doesn't need to ask. He knows where the room is. The door is already open. Cracked on the hinge, sunlight streaming through. It's dark inside.

Kiku doesn't really like bright lights. Some days, he will sit in his room with a blanket over his head. Flashlight in hand, a book of ghost stories in his lap.

He'll peek out from under his makeshift fort. Yao sees nothing but a mess of black hair and two sparkling eyes.

If Kiku's been under there for long, he might see the shine of sweat on his face.

"Want to tell ghost stories?"

Yao shrugs. "Sure. Your Japanese stories are very interesting. I should tell you some from my home country."

"That would be very educational." He raises the blanket. "Now get under here."

On a normal day, they would sit under the covers and shine the flashlight beneath their chin. Telling stories in dramatic voices that no one else ever hears.

But today isn't a normal day. Yao wishes it was.

Today, he is standing next to a white bed. The curtain is pulled aside.

Yao clenches his fists.

Look at him…just look at him.

Kiku is asleep. Bandages wrapped around his forehead, his neck, his arms, his hands. Gauze on his pale cheeks. Angry red lines are cut into his skin. Veins in a cherry blossom petal.

A victim of a hit-and-run car accident. Except Kiku hadn't been in a car. He had been at his mailbox, holding a bill between his teeth as he went through the stack of papers.

A letter from Yao, how nice. And then the car hit him.

The letter was stained with blood. The driver never looked back.

Yao wipes a tear away as he remembers that day. Getting the phone call, hearing the details of the accident.

He kneels next to the bed and grabs Kiku's cold hand.

He just wants Kiku's broken body to mend.

Maybe then, his heart will mend, too.


	32. Treasure

**A/N: For **TheDogzIsland2**. Hope you like it! The poem in here is Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review!**

* * *

Theme#32: Treasure

Pairing: Pirate!EnglandxPirate!Spain

The sun rises over the deck.

He's leaning across the railing. Arms dangling, fingers grasping a brass telescope. Waves crash against the ship. Blue water, white foam. He feels the wind on his face, salt sticking to his cheeks.

Green eyes close. When they open again, the world is full of diamonds. Diamonds in the foam, sapphires in the sea.

The sun is liquid gold in a sky full of clouds.

This is his place. Where he is meant to be.

Out in the open ocean, forever on the sea.

But it's still early. He yawns. Tears prick at his eyes. Pirate or not, Arthur is tired. After all, he was up all night.

Steering the ship? No.

Watching the horizon from the crow's nest? No.

Doing anything of real importance? No.

Writing a hopelessly romantic poem for a certain Spanish pirate? Yes. Most definitely, yes.

Arthur feels the sheet of paper in his pocket. Like a stone dragging him down towards Davy Jones' Locker.

This is stupid. He's stupid. Antonio probably won't even notice. The tomato loving Spaniard will jump aboard his ship, smile like he always does, and give Arthur a huge hug. But the hug will be meaningless.

Kind and soft, the thick brown hair tangling with strands of blonde. Arthur will close his eyes and imagine them standing beneath a full moon, sand under their feet. And in his mind, Antonio will bury his face in Arthur's shoulder and heave a sigh.

"Arthur, there's something I have to tell you. I—"

His fantasy is shattered.

Another ship just came up alongside his. Arthur runs his hand down his face. _Stop it, just stop it. You're supposed to be a fearsome pirate, remember?_

"Prepare to board!" There's that voice. That unforgettable voice as smooth as silk.

Antonio appears over the deck. He's swinging on a rope, a grin on his face. It's pretty quick. He swings over, jumps off, and lands in front of Arthur, bowing as he does so.

In Arthur's head, everything is in slow motion. Antonio's hair flutters in the breeze. Moves across his forehead like water. Green eyes glint in the sunlight.

Diamonds in the foam, sapphires in the sea, emeralds within his eyes.

Green…his eyes are green…just like Arthur's.

_Good Lord, we are so similar…it's a sign._

And then Antonio's clothes start to move. Saffron shirt rippling over his skin. Tanned leather jacket rustling and creasing. It sweeps across Antonio's thighs…

Arthur's mouth is slightly ajar. _Honestly, control yourself. You are one of Queen Elizabeth's Sea Dogs. Have some dignity._

Still slow motion. Antonio's lips curve into a massive grin. The gold earring hits his cheek, the feather in his hat trembles.

Arthur's knees are trembling.

The Spanish Captain tosses his head back and leaps from the rope. Arthur has never seen a more graceful jump in all his life. And then he's there.

Antonio bows and time speeds up. "Hola, mi amigo. How has the sea been treating you?"

"Uh…fine. Just fine." Arthur clears his throat. "Um, I…how are you?"

Antonio laughs. "That's no way to greet a friend! Come here, you perrito mar!" He runs forward and sweeps Arthur into his arms. Then he kisses Arthur on both cheeks.

Arthur's face is beet red.

Antonio touches Arthur's chin and turns his head back and forth. Green eyes are squinted in scrutiny. "You look a little sunburned, Artie. Maybe you should get a better hat."

"I-I guess."

Arthur can't take it. The Spaniard is leaning towards him, gently touching his cheeks and moving closer. _Stop, stop, stop!_

"Seriously, you're as red as a tomato! Here, take this."

Can he really be that oblivious? _A tomato, really?_

Antonio takes off his feathered hat. It's magnificent. A hat that he stole from a British captain. But Arthur doesn't mind. How can he? A Spaniard in a British captain's hat…perfect.

"Here." He places it on Arthur's head, a small smile on his face. "I think this belongs to you, anyways. Remember when I took it from you all those years ago?"

"Yes…of course. It what the first time we met."

Arthur swallows and Antonio comes closer. This is it…he's going to say it!

"Hey…you have a loose thread on your shirt, amigo."

Arthur sighs. A thread…seriously?

"Let me get it for you. Just hold still…there." He's holding the white thread, spinning it around with his fingers. "Oh look, there's another! I'll get—"

"Shut up already!" Arthur shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper. "Here it is, once and for all:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:  
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;  
And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;  
But thy eternal summer shall not fade  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;  
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:  
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  
So long lives this and this gives life to thee."

Silence.

Then Antonio smiles…how unpredictable.

"That's pretty good." He playfully punches Arthur in the shoulder. "I bet your girl back home will love that!"

Arthur hangs his head and sighs. "Yeah…I bet." He thrusts the poem into the Spaniard's hand. "Here, why don't you…proofread it for me?"

"Of course I will, amigo! Thanks!" It goes into his pocket.

Arthur stares at that pocket for a while. _If only he knew. If only he knew that he now holds the greatest treasure of all…_

He grabs at his chest and looks away from Antonio, his eyes moving toward the horizon.


	33. Apart

**A/N: For **AllyHWarner**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#33: Apart

Pairing: Fem!ChinaxEngland

Fingers on the dashboard. Pale drumsticks against black leather. Arthur thinks about his drum-set back home. He used to play it all the time. Chun Yan would stand beside him, playing her guitar and singing softly under her breath.

But that was a long time ago.

The drum-set hasn't been touched in months. The guitar sits on its stand. Unscathed. Which sounds like a good thing, but it's not. That guitar should be smashed by now. During one of their late night jam sessions, Chun Yan would have driven it into the ground.

Then she would laugh, he would laugh, and they would kiss in the dark garage.

But that was before apart time.

Chun Yan's guitar is in perfect condition. And the only drumsticks Arthur has now are his calloused fingers.

He taps them against the steering wheel.

Where is she?

Arthur's car is in a no parking zone, but he doesn't care. He's been waiting for three months to see her. Three months of lying in an empty bed. Fully dressed, he would stare at nothing and everything. Every inch of the bedroom reminded him of her.

The curtains, where she would hide whenever she was upset. The privacy screen, where she would tease him, throwing her clothes over and onto the floor.

All of it was her.

So who cares if he gets a ticket? Seeing her again is worth a million tickets.

He gets out of the car and leans against the door. This is taking way too long.

At last, he sees it. The open door.

Darkness of the inside, shadows spilling across the lawn. Arthur can't take it. He runs up to the fence. There's barbed wire on the top…figures.

Arthur looks through the chain-link. Lines crisscross over his body. Come on…come on.

There she is.

Chun Yan walks down the steps, escorted by a doctor. Of all the ridiculous things…

Her hair is still long, thankfully. Brown eyes are heavy and shadowed. She's still Chun Yan, though. She's a dusty porcelain doll. Dirt streaks down her cheeks, parts of her are chipped away. But beneath it all, she's beautiful. Priceless. Timeless.

Three months in drug rehab haven't been too hard on her.

Arthur loved her then, a troubled girl addicted to opium. Arthur loves her now, a tired girl smiling at him from beyond the gate.

He presses his face against the chain-link. "Chun Yan!"

"Arthur!"

She sprints across the grass, her hair flying every which way. Her momentum throws her against the fence. It shakes. She laughs. Arthur laughs, too.

Laughter turns to tears.

"Arthur…I-I'm so happy. It's been so long."

"I know." Their noses touch. He feels her hair on his forehead. He's forgotten how soft she is.

But apart time is over. They're together now. A reflection of smiles, tears running down their cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. So—"

"No, don't apologize." He grabs her hand. "The past is behind us, forever. We're now. And we'll never be apart."

"Never."

"Never ever."


	34. Band-Aid

**A/N: For **Ayumi Kudou**. Sorry it's kinda late. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#34: Band-Aid

Pairing: RomanoxTawain

She walks down the steps, taking the black bear with her. It's her favorite stuffed animal, a Formosan black bear with wide brown eyes. She's thirteen. Might be a little old for stuffed animals…but who cares?

School has just ended, and Mei dreads walking home alone. She sighs and clutches the bear's paw. Oh well, might as well start walking.

Only a few steps later, and something catches her eye. She cocks her head. Brown bangs fall into her eyes.

Across the sidewalk, leaning against a brick building, is a boy. He sinks to the ground, hair matted against his forehead. Hazel eyes glare at the dust beneath him.

Mei gasps. He's…bleeding.

A deep gash under his right eye pours blood. It looks like he's crying bloody tears.

But the blood isn't what makes Mei walk across the street. No, it's something else. It's the sadness in those hazel eyes.

She runs to him. Kneeling on her scabbed knees, she smiles at him.

"Hello."

The boy doesn't look up at her. Did he just growl at her?

"Uh, hello?"

He bares his teeth. "What do you want?"

"Well I—"

"Just answer the question already? What do you want?"

The boy looks up at her, and she gasps. His eyes are beautiful…

"Are you deaf?"

She flinches, startled by his voice. "No. I was just thinking."

He sighs and facepalms. He looks pretty cute when he does that, whoever he is. "I said, what do you want?!"

"What do I want…" Mei repeats this softly. "I'm not sure. I just came over here, that's all."

The boy props his elbows on his knees. "Well you should know! You don't just get in someone's face and bother them without a good reason. Now back off, bastardo."

"Bastardo? What does that mean?" Mei's eyes widen. "Are you cursing at me? My dad says that you should never curse at people 'cause it's mean and immature! Stop acting immature!"

"Shut that hole in your face, girly." He rolls his eyes. "You're annoying me."

Mei crosses her arms. "You're kinda mean…"

"So what?"

"Maybe it's 'cause you're bleeding."

He looks at her, one eyebrow raised. "Huh?"

"You don't feel good, so you're being mean."

"Whatever…" He puts his chin atop his knees, his lip stuck out in a pout. All that tough guy bravado melts away. Are those tears in his eyes?

Mei leans forward. "I could help you. May I touch you?"

He nods slowly.

What a simple question, what an innocent question. Slowly, she touches his face. He doesn't flinch and she doesn't pull away.

She tears off a piece of her dress and puts it on his cut. He pouts some more, but doesn't recoil.

Mei smiles.

She wipes the blood off his skin until nothing but a deep wound is visible. Streaks of dried blood scar his face. But other than that, he's clean.

"Here. Let me clean your hands." Mei grabs his wrist.

Her eyes widen. There's skin beneath his nails. "Did you do this to yourself?"

The boy says nothing.

"Why, why would you hurt yourself?"

Still, nothing. But his eyes are on fire.

Mei throws up her hands. "Geez, I was just trying to help. You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry, I'll leave now!" She jumps to her feet, but a hand grabs the hem of her dress.

"You can't leave without your bear." He pulls her back.

She sits back down.

He places the bear in her hands. "Since I gave this back to you, the least you could do is stay. Running off is…what'd you say before? Immature?"

"Fine. It's Mei, by the way. My name. What's yours?"

The boy glares at her for half a second. "Lovino."

"Lovino…" She likes how it feels on her tongue, so soft and serious. "Nice to meet you, Lovino."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's nice to meet you, too. I guess."

They sit in silence for a minute or two. Mei twirls her hair.

She thinks of something. She pulls a Band-Aid out of her dress pocket. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Leaning forward, she sticks the bandage on Lovino's cheek.

He flinches. "Ow, who's being mean now? Huh?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…I—"

Lovino laughs. "Relax. I'm just kidding."

Mei sighs in relief. "Oh ok, good."

Lovino laughs again. And then the two of them are caught in the trap of laughter. Mei leans against the brick wall, tears in her eyes.

Maybe they'll keep laughing and he'll tell her why he hurt himself and they'll be friends and they can walk through the streets, holding hands and…

Oh never mind. She needs to enjoy the moment. Quit worrying about the future. Just hold on to her bear and lean against the wall, laughing with Lovino all day long.


	35. Conquer

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. Hope you like it! It's a Harry Potter AU. **

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#35: Conquer

Pairing: EnglandxRussia

Arthur leans through the metal bars. His heart racing, sweat beading on his forehead. He's tired and hasn't eaten in days, but pain is meaningless now. Because he's getting out. At last.

He sees the dark shadow sitting in the corner. The cell next to him, just as dirty as his, is just as dark, too. Ivan's hulking form is barely visible. But Arthur can still see him. Violet eyes glowing in the darkness.

Arthur pressed his face between the bars. "Hey! The Dementors are coming at six, at least that's what that bloke Rookwood told me. Now I gave you the information you were looking for, you promised I could come with you!" His voice is loud, he's practically shouting.

Ivan slowly shuts his eyes. He has never actually seen who so conveniently "lives" next to him. The cells are too dark, too far from the windows. Not that there are a lot of windows in Azkaban.

All he knows is that his name is "Arthur" and that he likes this Arthur person quite a bit. The late night conversations, playing stupid games, laughing and crying for no reason at all. It's nice, having a friend.

"Yeah, you can come." Ivan cracks a smile. "And you better keep your voice down. If the Dementors hear you, they will come and suck out your soul."

That smile makes Arthur grit his teeth. "Uh, yeah, wouldn't want that. I'm quite fond of my soul."

Ivan shrugs. "Well, I don't have one. So no need for me to worry."

Arthur manages a laugh. "Surely you're joking?"

"No, not really." There's that smile again. "Now just relax, Artie."

"All right." Arthur's voice cracks with fear. "But…what if the Dementors come early?"

"No need to worry about that. The amount of despair your presence gives me is enough to keep them away." Ivan sighs and leans against the wall.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"They only feed on happiness. You make me sad, so they will not come."

"Uh…that's good, I guess." Arthur doesn't understand this guy. The constant insults, it's like he's talking to a bigger, creepier version of Francis.

Ivan has faded into silence, like he usually does. So Arthur lies down in his cell. Hard concrete beneath his head. Hard concrete above. He's inside a metal box. Caged for three years.

A soft voice inside his mind. _You know you deserve to stay, Arthur. You know what you did…_

He rolls his eyes. "Oh shut up."

"Huh?" Ivan is sitting closer to the bars. "You say something?"

"Uh, no. Just talking to myself."

"You do it a lot." Pale fingers touch the metal. "In your sleep. You talk about things."

"You listen to me when I sleep?!"

Ivan shrugs. "Sometimes. It…soothes me."

"Bloody hell?" Arthur feels the hair rising on his neck. "What would possess you to do that?"

"I told you, silly. It soothes me." His creepy smile softens. "Listening to a fellow inmate whisper in his sleep, it's nice. You talk about a lot of things."

Now Arthur is interested. "Like what?"

"Things. Come closer, and I'll tell you."

"Fine."

Arthur sits up and inches toward him. Closer and closer and closer. Violet eyes glow in the darkness. Sweat drips down his forehead.

"Just tell me already, Ivan."

"Okay."

And then he kisses Arthur's forehead. There's a moment of silence. Resting their heads against one another. Arthur is speechless, gripping the bars with both hands. Ivan is smiling.

"I-Ivan, I—"

Cold air encompasses every cell. The Dementors are here. No time to talk, their time has come.

"Get ready, Artie!" Ivan jumps to the front of his cell.

The soul-sucking aura of the Dementors tugs at every prisoner. All joy seems to vanish , but not for Ivan.

In fact, his smile grows larger until his entire face is nothing but a massive, toothy grin.

His chance has come.

_Their_ chance has come. He and that faceless prisoner named Arthur. They can escape, together. They will conquer this prison.

And then he can tell Arthur what he says in his sleep.


	36. Tangle

**A/N: For **AnimegirlTohru**. Hope you like it! So, I know this fic isn't insanely popular, but I would love to see some fanart of some of these drabbles. I am a wretched artist, so if any of you want to draw a little something for any of these drabbles, that would be awesome :). **

**Enjoy, request, and please review!**

* * *

Theme#36: Tangle

Pairing: CanadaxJapan

He's tangled up in the net. Criss-crossing lines on his body, making red marks on his skin. The ice beneath his feet is slippery. He struggles to keep himself upright.

Not that he's upright to begin with. Wedged sideways into the net, his hands and feet are bound. His feet shake as the blades skid back and forth on the ice. The ice skates are too big for him.

Kiku closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He told Matthew they would be too big.

Standing next to the vending machine, he told him the skates weren't right. "My feet are too…"

"Too what?" Matthew cocked his head, his glasses sliding down his nose.

"Too small." Kiku blushed and leaned Matthew. Trying to hide his face in the Canadian's hockey jersey. "I apologize. I am causing an inconvenience with my abnormally small feet. I am truly sorry."

"I-It's fine! R-Really!" Matthew stumbled back, tripping on his shoelaces. "Don't apologize. I-I like your small feet…"

Kiku looked up at him. Black eyes glittered in the fluorescents. "Really?"

The man behind the counter slapped two pairs of skates down. Had he been listening the whole time? "Yes, he really does. Now can you two move along, you're holding up the line."

There was a flood of muttered apologies and quick bows. Then Matthew and Kiku put on their skates and headed out onto the ice.

Learning to play hockey was a bad idea, Kiku knows that now. His giant skates are falling off his feet. His entire body is tangled up in the net. White cheeks are aflame.

This is so embarrassing, humiliating, dishonoring to his family and his country. And all because of his little feet. Even his shirt is too big.

Well, it's not really _his _shirt. Matthew pulled it out of his closet. Big smile on his face, blonde hair in his eyes.

"H-Here you go. Hope you don't think it's weird…you know, you wearing one of my shirts."

Kiku hadn't known what to say. He just accepted it with a polite bow. The inside of Matthew's closet was dark and cold. Plastic hangers and old shoeboxes. Hockey gear thrown into one corner, pieces of paper crumpled on the floor. Kiku wanted to step inside, but Matthew closed it. That was it.

And now that shirt is sagging across Kiku's body. The sleeves hang below his fingers. Some of the fabric is all jumbled up, revealing his midriff. He tries once again to free himself from the net. Shake, wobble, jiggle, tremble, shake some more, wo—

"Kiku, you ok?"

Matthew skates up to the net. His skates send up a flurry of ice shaving. His face turns red. "Oh, oops. M-My bad. You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little stuck."

"Hold on. I can fix that…maybe." Nervous laugh. His face is even redder. Not because he can't help Kiku. He's blushing because of how Kiku looks.

All tied up in the net, biting the oversized sleeves in apprehension, black eyes wide and sparkling. That hockey jersey sure looks good on Kiku. And it's Matthew's favorite jersey, too. The Toronto Maple Leafs emblazoned on the front.

Matthew swallows hard. His voice is soft. "Maple!"

"Uh, would you mind helping me, Matthew?" Kiku smiles gently. "My left leg is numb."

"O-Oh, of course, s-sure! Sorry!"

Matthew skates toward him. "Here I com—"

He tumbles forward. Poor Mattie, he's usually a great skater. But he gets tangled up in nerves. Now he's tangled up in the net, too.

"Great…just great."

"It's ok." Kiku looks sideways at him. "At least we're tangled up together."

"Uh, y-yeah…together."


	37. Sand

**A/N: For **unknown-for-life**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#37: Sand

Pairing: EnglandxVietnam

An elbow nudges Arthur in the ribcage.

Lien stares at him. "Shhh, we don't anyone to hear."

They are in a house now, one of those old, decrepit shacks that stands on the desert sands. Panels of wood are nailed to the outside, dusky windows glare at the nowhere land sprawling before it. It is all alone, just like them.

The apocalypse has not been too kind to the world. Arthur doesn't remember what happened, Lien doesn't care. All they know is this: they are alive, and they are together.

Now, let's survive.

The inside of the house is lifeless. Nothing but a spinning fan and the creaking of loose door frames. No furniture, just blackened shadows made of dust and parched embers. No spider webs or cobwebs, not even a buzzing fly. The absence of life is overbearing.

A baseball bat is turning round and round in Lien's hands.

She is listening for footsteps, an odd thing to search for in a house like this. Some man, middle aged with dust in between the cracks of his wrinkled face, lives here.

So maybe the house isn't so lifeless after all.

She holds her breath, the man appears from behind the wall, and the baseball bat hits him straight in the face. He falls backwards, his body slapping the wood floor.

Lien shrugs. "Sorry."

She steps over his body and into the kitchen. A couple cabinets, a rusted stove, and a layer of mold are somehow glued together to create this room.

Holes in the ceiling let beams of light in. They dance on the tile floor and across their faces.

Arthur leans against the counter, a small smile on his face. Lien is so pretty. Points of light on her cheeks, wedged in her dark brown locks. Arthur watches her move across the kitchen.

Her face is emotionless, but that's normal. She doesn't know how to smile.

With a swipe of her hand, she empties the cupboards of all their contents. She takes a box of cereal and a can of peas. There's a pencil lying on the countertop. She uses it to write a quick note:

Dear old man,

Sorry I hit you. Thanks for the food. I know it's wrong, but me and my friend are hungry, so thanks. I hope you're okay. Bye.

She glances at the man lying on the floor.

Arthur comes up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "He'll be ok. Look at him, there's not that much blood. Now let's go."

"Yeah, all right."

They run out. A mild dust storm is beginning to pick up outside.

Arthur turns to look at Lien. "So, where are we going now?"

Lien shrugs. "Don't know, don't really care."

Arthur laughs. They are walking amongst the dunes now, their feet sinking into the sand.

"You're so funny. How can you not care? We don't have a goal, we're just wandering around doing nothing."

"So?" She fixes her golden eyes on him. "We have to be strong. Stop thinking like that. We have to survive, that's our goal."

"But what about living, Lien? I can't spend the rest of my life just surviving."

"Well, if you die, you can't do either." She taps the baseball against her shoulder, her eyes blank. "Now let's go, we need to find shelter before—"

Arthur silences her with a kiss.

He runs forward, footsteps sinking into the sand. The wind blows against them. Specks of sand in their hair, their eyelashes, their mouths.

Arthur tastes it on her tongue. Her eyes are wide, but she's kissing back.

He feels it.

A gust of wind pushes him against her. They fall into the sand. Arthur starts laughing.

"Woah, this sandstorm's strong, huh?"

"I guess."

Her face is still blank. Arthur longs to see that smile. He sighs and kisses her on the nose. "The wind's getting stronger, let's find some shelter. Then we can continue this." Raise of the eyebrows, curve of the lip.

"Whatever."

Arthur stands up and pulls her to her feet. The sandstorm is getting worse. He looks at the horizon. Nothing but sand.

Nothing but time. Plenty of time to get her to smile.


	38. Waiting

**A/N: For **Guest**. Hope you like it! Vampire drabbles are so much fun to write, I will definitely write more.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#38: Waiting

Pairing:Fem!AmericaxRomania

School is long and boring. Amelia chews the eraser on her pencil. It's dark in the classroom. Why is she still here?

Sitting atop the teacher's desk, she rolls the pencil beneath her foot. Waiting isn't fun.

Technically, school is over. So it's the waiting that is long and boring. The room is swathed in shadows. Dark desks with spindly, three-legged chairs. Blinds pulled shut, slivers of light cutting across the floor.

Amelia sighs and kicks the pencil to the floor.

It's so loud when it hits the tile.

Like breaking bone.

She taps her fingers against the podium. "Where is he?"

Her voice is soft. But maybe he hears her. Outside the classroom, he can sense her movements. Each breath, each heartbeat.

All of it echoes inside his head. Deafening. A hammer against his skull.

Inside the classroom, Amelia is closing her eyes.

The sound of a door slowly opening. Looking up, she sees him there.

"Hey, sorry I made you wait." Vlad smiles and shuts the door behind him. "I had to help Mr. Kirkland grade some papers."

"Happen to see my grade?"

"Maybe…"

Amelia grins and moves to the edge of the desk. Legs spread apart; she grips her knees, cocks her head, and licks her lips.

She's ready for this. She's been waiting all day.

The sexy teacher's assistant named Vladimir is hers. All of the other girls are jealous. Of course, it's still a "rumor". No one can prove their relationship.

Amelia has a lot of secrets. She's dating a TA, that's one. And her TA just happens to be a vampire, that's two.

Fingernails dig into her skin. Knees turn red in the darkness. She can't wait. The anticipation is killing her.

She manages a whisper. "Tell me my grade, then."

"Nope. That goes against everything I believe in." Does he have to act so mischievous? That irritating smile that barely reveals his fangs.

Red eyes glint.

He's noticed her hands.

Resting on her knees, moving up her thighs. She's such a tease. But he loves her. Vlad has a few secrets of his own. He's dating a high school senior, that's one. And she just happens to be a human, that's two.

His family would kill him if they found it.

No matter. No one ever has to know. He can hardly control himself. Her blue eyes beckoning. Strands of hair fall across her lips.

"No more games, Vlad. Come here already."

"Can't argue with that." He walks across the classroom, hands in his pockets. "You're so pretty, Amelia. Like Ileana Cosânzeana. Your body like the sea. Even the flowers and the wind love you."

She rolls her eyes. "There you go with that Romanian fairytale crap again."

"Ileana is a beloved character in Romanian folklore, you should be honored."

"Then you'll be ok if I start calling you Edward?"

Vlad stops walking. His strawberry blonde hair hangs in his eyes. "You're killing me, Amelia."

"You're already dead." Her hands go up her thighs, her abdomen. They stop at her shirt. She starts unbuttoning it. "Get over here. I've been waiting all day."

He's nothing but red eyes and a toothy smile.

Amelia feels those teeth against her lips. She blinks and he's there. Hands around her waist, pulling her close. Up and down her spine, fingers dance across her ribcage. She feels it, nimble fingers ripping her bra from her body.

He breaks the clasp. But it's okay.

She wraps her legs around him. After kicking off her sandals, she digs her toes into back. They curl against his vertebrae.

It's aggressive, the kiss. Sucking and biting on each other's lips. Their tongues entangle.

Vlad feels her heartbeat. His body trembles. And when she slides her hand under his shirt, grabbing at his boxers, his red eyes widen.

If he was alive, he would be blushing.

Their make out session lasts another thirty minutes. Now they're lying on the teacher's desk. Pens, pencils, and stacks of papers are scattered across the floor.

Amelia has her bra back on. It's still broken, but she doesn't care. Laying there in her bra and underwear, she feels Vlad atop her. He's wearing nothing but his boxers.

She smiles and strokes his cheek. "Yeah, you're way hotter than Edward."

"And you're hotter than Ileana."

"Duh."

She kisses him again. Dating a vampire is fun. Dating a TA is even better.


	39. Loving

**A/N: For **hetaliaislife3**. Hope you like it! Sorry to sound redundant, but if any of you are artists and want to doodle a little something to go with one of these drabbles, that would really make my day ^^. **

**Enjoy, request, and please review :)**

* * *

Theme#39: Loving

Pairing: AmericaxScotland

There is a broken bottle on the floor. Drops of whiskey cling to the glass.

Darts in the carpet, holes in the wall. It's just a typical day.

Alfred is pinned down by strong arms. It's hot, they're sweating, and the apartment is a total wreck. This is what happens when Allistor gets drunk.

But the real question is: is he loving this or not?

Struggling beneath those smoke-stained fingernails, Alfred wonders how he got here. One knee digging into his ribcage, the other on his thigh. Sure, he's a strong guy, pretty tall, too. But Allistor is also really tall and really strong. And he's Scottish.

That is something Alfred will never forget.

Seeing him for the first time at the local bar. Elbow propped up on the counter. The man with auburn hair slowly swirls his drink. His gaze is fixed on Alfred.

Glass half empty, ice cubes clinking like chains.

His green eyes don't scare Alfred.

On the contrary.

Alfred raises his glass to his lips. Their eyes are locked.

Allistor places an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Alfred licks his lips and smiles. It goes on like this for a while. Looking, drinking, smirking, drinking some more. Never breaking eye contact. And then Alfred gets up and walks across the bar.

He stands next to Allistor.

"How's it going?"

Allistor takes another sip of whiskey. He says nothing.

Alfred takes off his glasses and leans against the bar. "So, ever meet a hero?"

"There's no such thing as heroes."

Wow, that accent! No, keep your focus…

"Well, you've never met me."

Seeing him for the first time, seeing him every day. Alfred doesn't know how he feels about this arrangement now.

Because now he's pinned beneath Allistor in an apartment without A/C. Whenever Allistor drinks, they end up fighting. Every single time.

What is this? Love, hate?

Both?

Allistor hovers over him. Hair disheveled, cheeks flushed red. He's grinning like an idiot. The cigar moves up and down.

Ash falls on Alfred's face.

Hmm, let's have some fun with this…

He licks it away.

"Feeling cheeky, huh?" Allistor sways forward. He puts his hand on Alfred's face, his head on one of the strong shoulders.

Sounds like he's laughing, or choking. Could be either one.

"Allistor…you're suffocating me, man."

"You're a wee scunner!" He laughs and ruffles Alfred's hair. Auburn mixes with blonde.

"I don't even know what that means. Just get off me, dude."

"No…I don't wa—" His hand goes limp. He groans and passes out. Too much alcohol tends to do that.

Alfred sighs. Great, now he has a tall, strong guy from Scotland draped across his body.

He smirks. Because the real question is: is he loving this or not?


	40. Time

**A/N: For **OmegaStarShooter14**. Hope you like it. So, I uploaded this today because it is the anniversary of Jeanne d'Arc's death. I've always felt somewhat connected to her because my birthday happens to be today. So this drabble is in honor of her.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review. And take some time to remember Jeanne d'Arc, a brave woman that changed history.**

* * *

Theme#40: Time

Pairing: Jeanne d'ArcxFrance

Notre Dame looks the most beautiful at sunset. An orange sky, painted pastel by dusk. No clouds. No rain. Just a gradual gradation as the sun slips away.

Gold.

Orange.

Yellow.

Fading into a subtle grey.

France stares at the black silhouette of the cathedral. Birds fly near the spires. He could cry. His capital city is so beautiful.

Leaning against the bow of a river boat, he watches the sun set. The Seine is silent beneath him.

The Seine. The water reflects the sky. But there is nothing breathtaking about it. He looks into the river and sees her face.

Jeanne.

After all, her ashes are somewhere in this water. Burned three times just to make sure her followers could not retrieve her body. Burned once at the stake, burned again to disintegrate her organs, burned one last time to…

"Oh my God…"

France's knees are weak. He falls against the bow. White knuckles grip the side. It may be a perfect sunset, but this day is his worst.

This day is always his worst. It is the anniversary of Jeanne's death.

He gave her the sword, the support, the love. He watched her as she gave his people hope. She helped them defeat the English, the French crown loved her.

Riding on a horse in her armor, short hair threaded across her face. France loved that hair. The hair that everyone criticized.

Across the green countryside, he watched her. She was one of his people.

He loved all his people, but his love for her was different.

One night, he found her praying beneath the stars. Cross clasped between her hands, she looked up at the sky. France walked slowly towards her. Shadows and moonlight on the grass.

She did not even move, though his steps were heavy. He carried his country, his past, all of it on his shoulders.

She did not turn around when she spoke. "Bonsoir, monsieur. The stars are lovely tonight."

"Yes, they're beautiful." He stood behind, unsure of what to do or say. "I...I apologize for interrupting your prayers."

"It's all right. Prayer is not something that you can really interrupt. It is ongoing. God exists outside of time." She turned her face to him. Beautiful eyes, beautiful smile. So much innocence and bravery wrapped up in that face. "I pray for you every night."

"Really?"

"Yes. Each night, I pray for France. I pray for you." A pale hand in the darkness. "Do you want to sit with me? Where two or three gather in His name, He is there."

France smiled and took her hand.

He is not smiling now.

He's curled up on the floor of the boat. The Seine rocks back and forth. He tries to feel his way through it. Through the metal and into the water, fingers skimming the surface, searching for remnants of her. Oh what he would give to find even a piece of her.

But time has consumed her.

That setting sun that paints the sky orange, it takes it all away. Her body, her voice, her hair, her words…

But never her memory. France holds that in his heart. As do his people.

And maybe tonight, he will pray for her. Jeanne d'Arc, who now lives amongst the stars.


	41. Stars

**A/N: For **AllyHWarner**. Hope you like it! I used Victoria for Fem!Hong Kong's name. Just wanted to clarify xD. **

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#41: Stars

Pairing: Fem!Hong KongxCanada

Lying on glittering grass, hair in his eyes. Her hair, soft and brown. Strands lie across his mouth. Falling against his teeth. The taste of her shampoo, kiwi and lychee, melts on his tongue.

Matthew sighs and wonders if her lips taste the same.

Arms wrapped around his head, he looks up at the sky. Through the crisscrossing bars of a jungle gym. Kind of looks like a planetarium. Midnight draped over it, a million starry blankets with a million tiny holes where light shoots in from a time long, long ago. A million shooting stars.

Stars shooting down on the city. Stars shooting down on him. On her. Victoria is splayed out beside him. Eyes half closed, she looks like she's falling asleep.

But she's awake. She has never been more awake in her life. It was Matthew's idea to watch the meteor shower. It was her idea to watch it from beneath the jungle gym.

"It'll be cooler this way."

"I-I guess. Sure…"

"Don't be nervous. It was just an idea. If you don't want to, we don't have to. Whatever."

"No, no! It's a good idea. Let's do it."

So they're lying here, watching the stars slide toward the horizon. Victoria wishes they were real stars, not just a bunch of meteors. Technicalities always ruin things. The childish idea of a "shooting star" shattered.

Matthew is happy they are not real stars. It would be sad if they were.

His fingers itch. Maybe it's because they're in the grass. Maybe it's because Victoria's body is only a few centimeters away.

Her jeans and her underwear that he has never seen, only two layers between them.

But Matthew shouldn't wish too hard. After all, he's never even stolen a kiss. Stealing is against his nature. And showing emotion is against Victoria's nature.

What is she, a star, a meteor? Both? Neither?

Why did she want to watch the sky from under the jungle gym? So she can gaze up at the fractured midnight and look at the world in a million pieces?

Everything fits together, the puzzle pieces of night.

It's the perspective that she loves. Seeing things from a different angle. She can't tell Matthew that. Like she would ever show her real self to anyone.

All of those thoughts and feelings, they can all just vanish. Fade like falling stars.

But when she looks sideways at him, she doesn't want them to fade. Matthew is special to her. He's overly emotional and scared of everything, scared of her, but she doesn't care.

She likes the way he makes Mr. Kumajirou kiss her on the cheek.

Only because he's too afraid to kiss her himself.

Another star falls. Meteor, star, what's the difference?

Matthew closes his eyes and makes a wish.

Victoria does the same.

And when their eyes open, their wishes have come true.

Mr. Kumajirou is out of work. All thoughts and feelings refuse to fade. Their fingers intertwine in the grass.

Matthew smiles. He was so wrong. Her lips taste nothing like her shampoo. Why would they?

They taste a million times better. He laughs and kisses her again. So much better than kiwi and lychee, a million times better than the moon, the meteors, and the night combined.

They taste like a shooting star.

And now he wishes they were real. That the stars really would fall and vanish into the horizon. How beautiful would that be?

As beautiful as her.


	42. Water

**A/N: For **rene10**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#42: Water

Pairing: HungaryxAustria

He's dreaming when she wakes him up. The bed is burning. He pulls the smoldering sheets over his head. Half-awake, the world is spinning. Heat, fire, fingers of flame running up and down his spine.

Roderich feels the sweat dripping down his forehead.

_What in th_e _world…_

"Wake up."

Someone pours water on his face.

Coughing, he's up, wiping his eyes and breathing hard. "W-What's going on?"

"We have to go. Get up!"

Through droplets, blue and clear, he sees her. Fractured by the water. Just like a prism. Her hair wild. Her green eyes wide.

Elizaveta is holding an empty vase. Flowers are scattered all over the floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Roderich hears it all slowly dripping. Sweat down his cheek, water down the glass. She did not just pour that on him…

Maybe she did.

"You awake now?" She looks awfully annoyed. Nervous, too. There are petals tangled in her hair.

"Yes, I'm awake! Was that really necessary? I was dre—" His cheeks are suddenly on fire. Elizaveta is wearing nothing but a bra and boxer shorts. "What are you wearing? I know we live in the same house, but our marriage is a political one. You don't have to…"

He swallows hard and pulls the sheets up to his chin.

"Don't get too excited. I'm just in my pajamas. It's not like I'm trying to seduce you." Green eyes roll. "I'm not Francis."

"He isn't here, is he?" He can't pull the sheets up any higher. At the thought of Francis, he wishes he could.

"No. Though I should invite him over again. I need a new video of your stripping." Her face is straight for half a second, then she bursts out laughing. "I kid, I kid. Now get up. We have to go."

"Why do you insist on bothering me, Elizaveta?"

"Because the house is on fire."

"What?!"

She shrugs. "Geez, no need to get your panties in a twist about it. It's no big deal. I've already evacuated the rest of house. Now," her arms extend, a grin on her face, "come with me, princess."

Roderich runs his hands down his face. "Princess? Really?"

"Yes. I am the prince, come to rescue the fair princess from the burning house. Now jump into my arms."

This is humiliating. There's Roderich. Bare-chested in a pair of boxers with edelweiss printed on them. He's trembling with embarrassment. And there's Elizaveta. Wearing a bra over her muscular body, looking ten times braver than him.

But the house ison fire…maybe he can be her princess, just this once.

He stretches out his arms and hangs his head. "Fine. I'm starting to smell the smoke, so be quick about it."

"Of course."

He doesn't know how it happens, but in an instant, he's in her arms. Those arms are strong, soft too. She's fast. Out of the bedroom, down the stairs, into the hall, and out the door.

Once they're outside, Roderich can see the extent of the damage. A black plume of smoke rises from the top floor. Probably an electrical malfunction.

Sighing would do him good. Screaming in frustration wouldn't help. So he just buries his face in Elizaveta's shoulder. He dreamed about fire earlier this morning, looks like his dream came true.

How unfortunate for him.

"Don't worry. It'll go out." She's so reassuring. It's almost like she can hear his thoughts. She smiles and sets him down in the grass.

"Look at that. I saved you, princess."

"Yes. You're very…valiant." He wants to cover his eyes. This is disaster. Now flames are leaping out of the roof.

He would strip for Elizaveta a_nd _Francis if it would put this fire out. Groaning, he rolls over.

She's there, propped up on one elbow. "I saved you. You're a princess. You know what a prince does after he saves a princess?"

"No, I do not. And frankly, I don't care."

"I'll tell you anyway."

And then she kisses him. Right on the lips, her tongue tangling with his. Roderich's eyes threaten to pop out of his head.

So this is what a prince does when he rescues a princess?

He doesn't know how he feels about this. Elizaveta's bra is touching his chest. Her boxers brush his.

Another spout of fire erupts from the house. But Roderich doesn't really care.

His prince has rescued him.

And he can be a princess for a little while longer. Just a little while.


	43. Overboard

**A/N: This was originally its own story for **Angleterre97**, but I decided it should be a part of this collection. It's kind of long, but I think it fits best here. So enjoy, request, and please review!**

**P.S: If you guys could each give me a three word phrase, that would be great. I need them for an idea I have for future drabbles. Thanks :).**

* * *

Theme#43: Overboard

Pairing: Pirate!EnglandxMer!France

A suicidal captain steering his ship into a hurricane is enough to strike fear in the most daring of hearts.

The dark skies are enough. The rushing waves, sharp as glass, are enough. Rain like bullets, winds slicing through the sails as the mast falls. All of it is enough.

Enough to let Captain Kirkland know that his ship is doomed.

He's doomed, too. Sailing into the storm was a poor choice. He admits that now. Admits, not knows.

Because he knew it all along. As the ship cut jagged lines in the water and lightning clawed the sky, he knew it was suicide.

Crates and barrels rolled across the deck. Sailors screamed.

"Turn back, Captain!"

"We sail towards Davy Jones' Locker!"

Arthur was deaf to all words of weakness. The storm clouds beckoned. Dark purple and black, the colors of darkness and death.

The color of bruises on his skin as debris strikes his body. He's facing the consequences now.

Plank by plank, the ship is being torn apart. Fingers made of ice and salt pull at the wood. Nails go flying across the deck. A sailor is hit in the back of the neck.

With eyes wide open, Arthur keeps sailing. Most of his men have already abandoned ship. But he does not notice. The lack of hands and feet, voices yelling and teeth chattering, it goes unnoticed. Faded in the back of Arthur's brain, oozing out of his skull.

Or is that blood flowing down his temple?

Memories drip down, sand out of a time keeper. The glass, his body is cracked. But he doesn't care. He sailed into this mess, and now he will…

Die?

Dammit.

He laughs into the wind. Rain pours into his mouth. The storm takes his hat and his gold earring.

Bloody hell, that hurt. His ear is bleeding now. But he keeps laughing.

Amidst the hurricane, the ship is stripped bare. Its skeleton protrudes. Brown beams of its ribcage. White material of its bloody skin.

Arthur stands above it all, laughing and holding a detached wheel in his hands.

People were right when they called him Crazy Kirkland. He likes that title now. And why not?

After being captured and tortured by the Spaniards for six months, why shouldn't he be crazy?

This hurricane can rip him apart for all he cares. He holds the wheel up towards the sky.

"Take it! Take everything!"

The wind is pulling him away from his ship. He can feel his feet sliding. Drenched with blood and rain, hair stuck to his forehead, he grins.

"Take me!"

And the storm answers. The ship strikes a rock and crumbles into the ocean. Arthur falls from the deck, the wheel still in his hands. He hits the water and fades into blackness.

He drifts in and out of consciousness.

Awake. He's in the middle of a vortex. Wind and lightning.

Asleep. Dreams are filled with shimmering scales. Blue eyes and golden locks.

Awake. He's lying in the eye of the storm.

A circle of heaven. The sun is hot and yellow. Cradled by white clouds, it reminds Arthur of something…

A golden head skimming the water's surface. Sea foam spinning, sea eyes widening.

Lying on driftwood, he looks up at the peaceful sky. Are there birds flying up there? He blinks the salt from his eyes. His body is battered. Dark purple and black. The water is turning red around him.

But this is what he wanted, right? Dying in the middle of the sea, surrounded by pieces of his ship.

He's slowly falling asleep, that dream is returning. Shimmering scales, blue eyes and golden locks.

Wait…

Something is touching his arm. Soft and wet. A finger?

He opens his eyes and sees a human face. Pale, covered in water. Two blue eyes and blonde hair stuck to sunburnt cheeks.

The face is hazy in Arthur's mind. Half-conscious, he stares at it. "Bloody…hell…"

A pair of lips curves into a smile. The blue eyes blink. "Hello there, mon capitaine."

* * *

Searching for shipwrecked sailors has become a pastime for Francis. Pirates are an added bonus. How lucky for him.

Swimming beneath the blue water, he feels it. The propelled current against his back. Salty and wet. Like everything thing else in his world. Sand spirals around him. And from the center of the vortex, he looks up.

Dappled light on the waves. It goes from blue to white to green. Then it all goes dark. A storm is coming.

Hurricanes are fun when you're underwater. Francis will spin and dance with himself.

Because there is no one else around.

Seaweed becomes the arms of another. Soft and silky, he wraps them around his shoulders. Water churns and the surface becomes a cracked mosaic. Then he lies on the bottom of the ocean and looks up at the sky.

His sky is different. It's touchable, real. Fingers can pass through it into another place. Sometimes, he stretches his hand above his sky and feels the sun and wind. The surface is a special place. The divide between his world and another.

One time, a seagull landed on his emerged finger.

Blue eyes widened in awe.

His eyes are widening now. The storm is ending. He can sense it, the approaching eye. Shafts of light penetrate the surface.

Francis wants to penetrate the waves with his sunburnt knuckles. Then he can grab the coat of that floating sailor.

He watches the waves. From blue to white to red. There is blood in the water.

Francis is familiar with drowning sailors. He sees them often. This one is wearing a long coat fitted with gold buttons. Edges are frayed.

Could this person be a pirate?

He swims up, just below the sailor, and examines him with eyes wide open. Don't touch him, don't touch him. Don't invest yourself in a person that may die.

Because the cloud of blood is growing. Larger and larger by the second, redder and redder. Francis can taste it. Like iron on his tongue. He pulls at the frays on the coat, running his teeth over his lip. What should he do? Is this one worth saving?

He feels strands of blonde hair on his forehead. Golden thread tangled around his bangs. Maybe this one is worth saving.

With hair like this, the pirate's face must be beautiful.

Francis will go take a peek.

He doesn't gasp when he surfaces. Oxygen is oxygen, whether it's in the air or underwater. It's hot up here. The air is charged with electricity.

It tastes a lot different than salt.

Warm and alive.

He floats for a moment. Total silence. Nothing but choppy waves and thick calm. He could rake his nails through it. The cylinder of peace in the center of the storm. Francis hears seagulls overhead.

There's a piece of driftwood beside him. It's a sign.

The eye wants him to save this nameless pirate.

Fingers itching to grab that coat, he moves closer.

Wow, Francis was right. This pirate is beautiful. A pale face, rough and ragged around the edges. Half-open eyes, dark green in the light. That golden hair is plastered to his forehead. A mix of blood and salt smeared on his cheeks. He's alive. Francis can see the chest rising and falling.

So much blood. So much light. Scattered, splattered across a helpless body. Ripped skin, torn ears. How sad, the pirate lost his earring.

Francis gathers him in his arms. Heavy and light at the same time. He could be holding a bird. Broken wings, bloody feathers.

"You can live. Here in the eye, there is life." Francis's lips graze the sunburnt forehead. It's soft, his mouth molding to the cuts and lines. Taste the salt, the blood. There's something else…

Rosewater maybe?

Beneath the layers of flavors, he finds this. He sees it in his mind. The pirate wakes up early in the morning. There are a few inches of water in the porcelain wash bin. And there's something special in there, too. Rose petals. Pour the contents of a vase into the sink. Pull the roses from their stems and put them in your hair.

That's what the rosewater tells him.

Francis wants to believe this is true.

He pulls the pirate up on the driftwood. And now it's time to wait.

Time isn't easy to tell. The sun hides behind clouds. Francis rests his chin on the wooden planks. He sighs, blowing a strand of hair out of his face.

It's been a few hours.

The pirate stirs. Francis remains motionless. He watches the captain in complete silence.

Green eyes slowly open. Marine flowers blossoming in the shallows. Flutter of eyelashes, sheathed with salt.

Give him a minute, let him look at the sky and hear the gulls.

Now you can touch him. A pale finger on the shredded shirt. He can feel the muscles beneath the material.

Strained and bruised.

Gasping for breath, the pirate turns his head. His vision is unfocused. Can he even see Francis?

His voice is barely a whisper. "Bloody…hell…"

Francis smiles. "Hello there, mon capitaine."

* * *

They stare at each other.

One is thinking this is just a dream.

One is hoping this dream will never end.

Captain Kirkland doesn't believe in mermaids. At least, that's what he tells people. Sea life has been too hard. Gritty instead of magical. Ironic instead of mysterious. He has never gazed upon bejeweled seas, heard Sirens or seen floating islands. Pirates don't have time for that.

They have time for raids on coastal villages. They have time to drink and fight and die. Arthur spends his time with the local women. Prostitutes of all kinds.

This is his life. Sleeping with women and plundering Spanish ships.

And then he was captures by Spaniards and the magic vanished all together. There is no magic in a dark cell. Chained to the wall, tortured every day.

The scars on Arthur's back form a pattern.

The Spanish flag, a humiliation for an Englishman like him.

He may be an Englishman, but he's no gentlemen. At least, that's what he tells people.

So when he looks at the sunburnt face beside him, he tells himself that he is in a dream. Pirates don't meet mermaids. Men like him don't deserve that kind of smile.

Francis' smile can't be real. It's too pure. Made of sunlight and sweet sea grass. Drops of water slide down his skin.

Arthur blinks and tries to move his arm. Too heavy. His entire body is waterlogged. Broken, too.

Francis notices the curling fingers. All of them are ringed in white. The un-tanned places where rings used to be. Wow, so many rings, so much wealth. He strokes the curled fingers and keeps on smiling.

"You are a pirate, no?"

"W-What? Who are you? Where…am I?"

"In the eye of a storm. You're lucky, Captain. Hurricanes are strong." He places his hand on Arthur's. "Just rest. I will lead you back to shore."

"You didn't tell me who you were…"

"Forgive me. I am Francis a mer—"

"I don't believe in mermaids." An attempt at laughter that turns into a coughing fit. Arthur spits water out of his mouth and closes his eyes. "Mermaids aren't real."

"I'm not a mermaid. I'm a merman."

"You're insane."

"You're a skeptic. But I can change that." Francis rolls onto the driftwood. Bare chest, bare tail. All of it sparkles beneath the sun. He grins and pulls at the buttons on Arthur's jacket. "You see?"

"Uh…sure."

"You believe?"

"Maybe."

Francis laughs and looks up at the sky. This isn't his sky. It's faraway and never-ending. But he likes it. It's mysterious, just like this pirate. He wants to take the captain's hand and pull him into the water. He has so much planned, so much to show him.

Rescuing nameless pirates is a hobby of his. This golden haired captain is no exception.

He grabs Arthur's hand and holds it tight.

"It's ok if you don't truly believe. After I finish with you, you will believe with all your heart."


	44. Warmth

**A/N: For **GerIta'sChild**. Hope you like it! I decided to do a little Angel/Demon AU, just to do something different.**

**I've almost hit 100 reviews! Hopefully, I'll make to 100 today. I think I'll do something special for all of you amazing readers/reviewers once I get there.**

**P.S: If you could leave me with a three word phrase, that would be awesome. I need them for future drabble ideas.**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#44: Warmth

Pairing: Demon!GermanyxAngel!Italy

He is like a child. So small and so fragile, a porcelain doll lying in a litter of broken glass. Wings tucked around his naked body, he trembles and waits.

He waits, feet teetering on the edge of the roof. This city is so large, so dark and scary. Waiting for Ludwig is hard.

Hard because Feliciano is afraid of the dark. Hard because angels and demons are never supposed to meet. But Ludwig is different. Sure, he looks like a demon. Black wings curved and pointed. All harsh lines drawn in ink and sulphur. And his eyes bleed red instead of blue. Dark crimson pools for irises.

Ludwig looks like a demon, but he isn't one. He can't be. No demon saves an angel's life.

Feliciano remembers hanging onto the power cables. Broken wings, bloody feathers, he was ready to die. Then Ludwig saved him.

"What happened to your wings, angel?"

"I-I broke them."

"I can see that. How?"

"You don't get it. I broke them myself. Sometimes, I don't want to live."

The start of everything. Of secret meetings and midnight dreams. Black leather against white ivory. Something that was never meant to happen.

Feliciano sighs and looks up at the sky. "He's taking a long time, I hope he's alright."

He rocks back and forth, counting the stars overhead.

A shadow appears next to him. It ripples in the gloom of night. Black matter against the concrete, falling down the skyscraper. All at once it vaporizes. Ludwig's crimson eyes become visible from beyond the darkness.

"Ludwig!" He claps his hands frantically. "I'm so happy! Yay! Yay!"

Ludwig grunts and sits down next to him.

Feliciano's arms are around him in seconds. The angel hugs him tight, a smile on that innocent face.

"Sorry I took so long." And uncomfortable shuffle, running his hand through his blonde hair. "I had to finish some work. You weren't scared, right?"

"Oh, I…uh…"

He rolls his red eyes. "I'll ask you again, were you scared, Feliciano?"

He turns to face the angel. He looks so scary, so terrifyingly sick that Feliciano can't help but lean towards him. With his pale hands dyed red with blood, and those fangs peeking out from under his lip, he is fascinating. Some kind of risen demon. No, some fallen angel that has fallen so low it is inches away from the gates of the Abyss. Yes, that's what he is.

Feliciano gazes into his crimson eyes, red like roses, blood, and murder, and leans toward him confidently.

"No, I wasn't."

"You're a bad liar, Feliciano. I know you're afraid of the dark." Ludwig places a pale hand on Feliciano's cheek. The nails are long and sharp.

No flinching, no breathing. Still as statues in the night.

He feels sudden pain. Ludwig drops his hand.

Tears shimmer in Feliciano's eyes. He feels his cheek. A thin puncture wound turns his fingertips red.

"Why did you scratch me?"

"It's just a reminder. Don't get too comfortable with me. I'm still a demon; you're still an angel." Ludwig turns his back to him. A gust of wind rises over the rooftop. Tossing blonde strands every which way, making goosebumps appear on sunburnt skin.

Not exactly sunburnt. More like hell-burnt.

Ludwig is cold up here.

Feliciano will show him. He backs up against the demon. Their wings match perfectly. In shape, in form, but never in substance. Heat radiates off Ludwig's skin. The angel unfurls his wings and drapes them across the demon.

They cannot see each other.

They can never truly understand.

But right now, they can sit in silence. An angel keeping a demon warm in the dead of night.


	45. Ninja

**A/N: For **AnimeApprentice**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). I still need to think of something special to do for all of you...hmm, any ideas?**

* * *

Theme#45: Ninja

Pairing: Fem!JapanxMale!Belarus

Sakura is a ninja in the bedroom. But not in the way you would think. Her lingerie is pink like the cherry blossoms outside the window. In the partial darkness, she hides under the bed. These are her ninja skills. Hiding, silencing, sneaking up on Nikolai when he comes home.

Their apartment is small and modern. Behind the thick curtains, glass doors look down on the city. Blackness is broken up by flashing lights. The lights of Tokyo. Sakura paces across the tile.

She drags her fingers across the glass. Blossoms float by on a warm breeze. Behind the screen is the scene. Polished double doors glistening like diamonds, a pretty Japanese girl pressed up against them. Lens flares on her thighs.

Where do they come from?

Her video camera is set up beside her. Maybe she'll record a little video for Nikolai. He's been gone for hours. Sakura grew tired of hiding under the bed. Now she waits at the door. Gleaming eyes scan the city.

Where is he?

Might as well start the video. Through the camera lens, she's not completely in focus. Fuzzy outline, her dark eyes shining through. Biting her lip, she turns toward the camera. Toes curl, ankles bend. She brings her foot up behind her leg and runs it up her thigh.

Tiptoe across the tile. Sway back and forth, short black hair shaking. She cut it for him. Just to show him that she can be different.

And when that hair is messed up and her heart is racing, he smiles and calls her wild. He'll be under her, holding her a little too tightly, nipping at her ear.

Nikolai is aggressive. Whenever they're in bed, he kisses just a little too hard. That's ok. She's delicate, but not that delicate.

Cherry blossoms don't always rip beneath ragged nails.

Nikolai's nails are certainly ragged. Chipped from all those nights out. He's a thief. Yes, a thief.

Sakura's a thief, too. She steals hearts with her bright eyes and shy face. Holding them in her hand, she looks at them and wonders at them. Nikolai's heart is tied up in a string around her neck.

She loves him. Even though he's possessive and jealous. Even though he rakes those nails down the bathroom door whenever he's upset.

She closes her eyes and spins slowly in a circle. Dancing in the dark. With each spin, she moves faster and faster. Spotting is easy for her; she used to be a ballerina.

Faster and faster. Strands of hair fall across her face. The room twirls around her.

And then she falls gracefully to the floor.

She hears the click of the lock. The front door opens. There are three rooms in the apartment. Bedroom, bathroom, living room. A kitchenette off to one side, where Nikolai always throws his keys.

He tosses them onto the counter.

Where is Sakura?

He smiles. Teeth sharp and pointed. He knows where to find her.

The bedroom door is cracked open. Pushing it with a curled fist, he finds her there, curled up on the floor. She's doodling on a piece of scratch paper.

"Hey."

"Oh, hi. I didn't hear you come in."

Nikolai sees the video camera on the desk. He grins. "So, what have you been up to?"

"Just drawing. The cherry blossom trees are beautiful tonight."

Nikolai can't wipe the smile off his face. He knows she is lying.

"You grabbed that piece of paper right when you heard the door unlock, didn't you?"

She looks up at him, face expressionless. Chewing the eraser on the pencil, she cocks her head. "If you think I'm lying, please, just say so."

"For a shy little Japanese girl, you sure are blunt." He takes a step forward. Chin-length hair brushes his fur collar. Sakura loves to play games with him.

"At least I'm not a yandere."

"Oh now you've crossed a line. Come here!" Laughing, he runs up to her, his fingers itching to touch that beautiful body.

She smiles and dives under the bed.

There she goes again.

Nikolai can't fit under the bed. He takes off his black coat and throws it on the comforter. Pacing back and forth, hands in his pockets. He'll have to wait for her to come out.

The camera lies on the desk. Maybe he'll check it out, see what video Sakura made for him. She does this all the time. And she always tries to cover it up.

He picks up the video camera. Red play button beneath his fingertip. Press play; see what his little ninja has to offer.

She offers him the world.


	46. Meaning

**A/N: Ok, so two of these pairings are for **Guest **and **Writer-at-Heart**. Ok, so I read on tumblr that the phrase "I never said she stole my money" has 7 meanings depending on which word you emphasize. That gave me a great idea for some drabbles. Here are the first 3 drabbles with 3 different meanings for the phrase. The last 4 will come later!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#46: Meaning

Pairings: PrussiaxCanada, AmericaxFem!Japan, AustriaxHis Piano (this was an interesting request to write xD haha)

**PrussiaxCanada**

"_I _never said she stole my money!"

"I know you never said that. I said it because it's true. You can't let people walk all over you, Mattie. Geez, have a spine."

"B-But it wasn't true. You falsely accused her and now l-look w-where w-we a-are…"

Gilbert rolls his eyes. Mattie is getting nervous. And when Mattie gets nervous, he starts stuttering. Does Gilbert hate that? Or does he love that? The redness on his albino cheeks may be the result of all the struggling. It may also be the result of finding Mattie's stutter cute. But the question still lingers, heavy in the night air.

One of the windows is open. A steady stream of cold and hot comes in. Cold from the A/C shaking beneath the pane. Hot from the city below. Everything is hot down there. The streets, all stretched out, black and white and yellow. The manholes whistle and smoke. And the women are hot, too. That's why Gilbert invited one up.

It was supposed to be a fun night. He found her on the street corner, where those kind of women always are. Nothing but a lipsticked mouth and painted face. Gilbert paid her. He thought it would be a nice surprise for little Mattie. Maybe it would spice things up.

She came up to their apartment, high heels clicking on the steps.

Gilbert dragged Mattie out of the bedroom closet, gave him a pat on the back, and told him it would be fun. Just before it was all about to start, everything went to hell.

Mattie said, "Oh, what happened to my wallet?"

Gilbert accused the prostitute of theft. She screamed, he screamed. Mattie cowered in the corner. Bodies moved too fast, words were too strong. The woman finally left, leaving the two of them handcuffed to the bed and to each other. No key, no way out.

"Well isn't this just awesome…"

Turns out, the wallet was stuck between the cushions of the couch. Gilbert is still in denial.

"She put it there, Mattie! For safe keeping! After she had her way with us she was going to take it and run!"

Mattie sighs. "You're so stubborn sometimes."

Gilbert sighs, too. "That's why I'm awesome." He rests his chin atop that golden hair. Mattie is still trembling, tear stains on his cheeks. Such a crybaby. They'll find a way out. Maybe not tonight. It can wait, though.

Hands touching in the dark. Silver hair covering gold. It's kind of nice.

Gilbert hears those words again. _You're so stubborn sometimes._

He smiles, his red eyes glinting. And the words come out, he doesn't even try to stop them.

"That's why you love me."

* * *

**AmericaxFem!Japan**

"I _never _said she stole my money!"

Sakura dramatically throws her arm back, attempting a wink at the same time. It all feels so fake. She's a plastic doll, complete with bendable arms and a swiveling head. Is that how the photographer views her?

He's behind the video camera. One second, one frame. Two seconds, two jumps over to the Nikon on the tripod. He hops back and forth. Apparently, he has a very unique idea for this photo shoot. Some kind of mixed media thing.

But Sakura can't complain. Alfred F. Jones is a world famous photographer.

He pops up from behind the camera. "Ok, that was great! But you have to say it with more flare, more passion! In this shoot, you're a flirty drama queen with a love for stirring up trouble. You're like a hot rascal, get it, Kiki?"

Kiki? Guess that's his nickname for her.

Sakura cocks her head. "Sorry…but what did you just say?"

Alfred laughs. "Here, I'll show you."

He walks straight into the spotlight. The studio is small. Silver walls, tiled floor, beams of light refracting off everything. Sakura squints.

Her photographer appears out of the blinding diamonds. Sparkling spotlights, all clear crystal shining in her eyes. Alfred doesn't look too bad, for an American.

"Watch me, ok?" He nudges her, a smile on his face. "This is a photo shoot slash video shoot. At the end of this, we'll have a short film and a bunch of still shots." Standing beside her, he takes a deep breath and adjusts his glasses. "Now, get inside the character's head. Be the character, feel the character."

"How do I feel it? I can't act this way." She feels her face burning. "I'm not flirty…"

Sakura is a model, not an actress. And she's predisposed to be shy and polite. Serious and—

"I can show you how to be flirty, Kiki."

In an instant, he grabs her and dips her.

Dips her.

A photographer dips his model.

Are all American's this bold?

He kisses her hard, smiling against her lips. It's one fluid motion. Fingers wrapped around her palm, muscles moving, pulling her towards the floor. And then the kiss. That signature kiss that everybody loves.

He's used it on other women, other models. He even used it on Arthur once.

But when he pulls away, the look on Sakura's face is completely different. He's never seen this before. Breathless abandonment written all over that blank expression. Her black eyes sparkle beneath the spotlights. Rings of white around her pupils.

"Uh…wow. So that's flirty. Huh…"

"You get it?"

Sakura shakes her head. "Um, not really. Show me again?"

Alfred grins. Now this is something different. "Sure, Kiki. I can most definitely show you again."

* * *

**AustriaxHis Piano**

"I never _said _she stole my money." Roderich smiles. It's dry and sarcastic. "But I did do something else. I played it. Played it so well that she got the message."

Fingers on the keys, he smiles even wider. Poor Roderich, he's so cynical about life. When Elizaveta came in sporting a new dress, he asked where it came from.

A casual shrug, placing a tray on the piano. Glasses of sweet lemonade on the silver, a smile on her lips. She was up to something. He could tell. Did that awful Gilbert buy her a new dress? No never.

She must have taken the cash out his coat pocket when she was doing the laundry. Stupid idiot Roderich, he always leaves his money in his clothes. And now Elizaveta has stolen it and used it to buy a frivolous dress. How wasteful…

So Roderich composed a song. An accusatory song filled with sharp notes and minor chords. Pounding the keys, furrowing his eyebrows. He played and Elizaveta didn't really notice.

Inside his mind, he had her full attention.

In real life, she was sipping lemonade and bobbing her head to the catchy tune.

Now she is gone. Roderich is pleased with himself. Pleased with his piano. The keys are smooth beneath his fingertips. White and colored ivory. They remind him of porcelain skin, so soft and pale.

Tapping the keys, toes curling against the foot pedal. He loves his piano. If there is a perfect mistress in this world, it is his piano. Roderich can play her whenever he wants. Long fingers pluck her delicate chords. Secrets flow out of her. Sweet music to his ears. Smooth fingernails always find her sweet spot. Deep inside, she sings for him.

Through strings and polished wood, empty chambers brimming with sound. Roderich would love to curl up inside her and fall asleep.

He plays her gently. Closing his eyes, he lets his fingers fall where they may. The tingling starts in his legs. Like electricity in his veins, it moves up his thighs, his hips, his chest. Sweat beads on his forehead. Heartbeats flutter.

Good thing no one is watching. When he bites his lip and lays his head down on her keys, he wants to sigh. This is so perfect. She is perfect. His piano, his mistress, his love…

He doesn't see Elizaveta standing in the doorway. She leans against the threshold, covering her mouth. Shoulders shake with laughter.

Poor Roderich, he's hopelessly in love with his piano.


	47. Graffiti

**A/N: Theme requested by **Guest**. Pairing requested by **Falling Stars Of Silver**. Hope you guys like it! I will finish my "Meaning" drabble-set soon, just so you all know.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#47: Graffiti

Pairing: RomanoxAmerica

He's got red and white spray painted across his face.

Where is he? A cardboard cutout world. A yellow sun dangling from the sky. Horizon setting like glue, paper clouds floating by. Lovino wants to peel them off one by one.

He'll crumple them in his fist and throw them into the wind.

Everything feels so fake when he's with Alfred. A good kind of fake. Like when you're in a digital world and the graphics are so realistic and the animation makes you want to cry. A good kind of cry. Like when Alfred grabs him from behind and tickles him half to death.

Lovino pretends that he hates that. But he really loves it. When Alfred gets on him like paint on a wall, he flinches and cringes and cries. Right now, he's against the brick wall. It's hot today. The sun beats down. Sweat curves over his eyelashes and his chin.

Alfred stands on the asphalt. He shakes the paint can back and forth. There's that jingling sound from deep inside. Lovino likes that sound. Because what makes it jingle? It's a mystery. Can't be the paint. Can't be…

"Hey, Vargas. Don't move! I'm outlining you." Alfred leans against him, holding his wrist down. This is some graffiti session. Usually, they just paint the brick and each other.

Lovino will paint tomatoes and Italian flags.

Alfred will paint eagles intertwined with guns and roses.

Today, he's outlining Lovino. Maybe it's for art's sake, maybe it's for something else. Seeing Lovino like this is pretty fun.

He presses his fingers against Lovino's palm. "Just hold still. It will look totally cool after I'm done…"

"Can you at least try to not spray paint my face, bastardo?" He licks his lips. That was a bad idea; he can taste the red and white. "You see this? I'm eating it! Eating it! Watch what you're doing!"

"Chill your nips." Alfred rolls his eyes. "I'm almost done."

"Fine…"

Amber eyes close. He heaves a sigh. The light comes at him from every direction like some kind of beacon. It hurts his eyes and gives him a headache. It is all slowly melting. Liquid drops of light slide down the brick. Fall upon his face, drip down his cheeks. He's getting tired of this. All this waiting and standing still. Alfred's knee in his thigh. Alfred's shoulder against his collarbone.

Bent bones curved against each other. The taut skin, some burned, some tanned, brushing like two flags in the wind. An Italian flag entangling with an American one. High up on a flagpole.

Way down on the streets.

Alfred has stopped painting. He looks down at Lovino. "Kinda hot out here, huh?"

"I don't know…" His face is red. Alfred's reflective glasses hurt his eyes. He wants to look away.

"This outline looks nice. You know, 'cause you look nice." The American clears his throat. "You make a nice outline."

"Thanks. I guess."

"I'm done now. So you can move if you want." Is his hand really shaking? Lovino hears the paint can rattling.

"Uh, I'm fine, actually. I-I think you missed a spot. My foot doesn't look outlined." Brown bangs hang in his eyes. He wants to melt into the brick and die. "So why don't you fix it…bastardo."

Alfred smiles. The paint can falls out of his hand.


	48. Archery

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. This is long overdue, I apologize. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#48: Archery

Pairing: MongoliaxChina

Pull back. Aim. Bite your lip and take a breath. Baatar draws blood. Brown braid falling down his back, brown eyes squinted in the sun. He's so good at this. Years of practice have paid off.

Yao can tell. Yao can definitely tell. He sits on the grass, pulling at bits of clover and trying not to blink. He doesn't want to miss it. That golden moment when Baatar finally lets the arrow fly. Fingers dance on the bow. They move back and forth on the string. Yao clenches his fist. Clumps of grass in each hand. The anticipation is too much.

Baatar gasps and lets go. The arrow zips through the air, finding its mark in the middle of the target. Bullseye. Like Yao should have expected any less.

"Good job. You are very talented."

Baatar bows slightly, a smile on his face. "Thanks. I've had a lot of time to practice."

"I can tell. You're really quite graceful." The way his voice shakes at the end, it betrays his true emotions. Yao tries so hard to keep himself calm whenever he's around the Mongolian. He wants to be mature. But it always fails. A tremor in the voice, a redness on the cheeks.

It's just a scratchy throat.

It's just a sunburn.

Bataar will say nothing. He'll just smile and pull on his collar.

They can sit beneath a tree now that archery is done. Watch the horses in the pasture. Tails bat flies away, ears turn to sound. The sound of wind through the high grass. The sound of storm clouds thundering overhead. And Baatar's sigh as he sits beneath a tall tree, Yao next to him.

The tree is colossal and dead, its branches like the claws of a wild animal. The bark is brown, its colors mixing together in separate knots that climb up the tree's trunk. So eerie and surreal, as if it has been transported through time from some land of red and eternal sunsets.

Ancient Mongolia. With its steppes and nomads. Looking at Baatar, it's hard to believe that a bespectacled archer like him is descended from that. Or maybe it's not so difficult. That adventurous spirit is there inside him. He'll stand in the middle of a field with his arms stretched out.

Yao loves that about him.

"Your land is so beautiful." He leans against Baatar, snaking a pale hand through the crook in his arm. "The sunsets are magnificent."

"They are pretty nice. Like some of your Chinese paintings. I love those."

"Thank you."

This formality is making them both nervous. No need to be on edge, the sun is setting on the horizon. It tips and falls into the night. Blue skies turn to red. Bare feet sink into bits of grass and dust. Sand spirals around them.

Baatar takes his bow and puts it around Yao's neck. He pulls him forward and now their foreheads are touching.

Yao in the middle of wood and string. Baatar on the outside, gripping the bow with one hand. They stare at each other, saying nothing, until the sun is finally gone. They are left alone in the night. Sitting beneath the tall tree, finally at ease.


	49. Prize

**A/N: For **FreezinWinter**. What a cute request ^^. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#49: Prize

Pairing: RomanoxTomato

Lovino falls asleep while playing the claw machine game. He's been trying for hours. Stuffed animals scattered all over. Bears, pigs, cute little puppies in a rainbow of colors. They are all there, inside the glass. All he has to do is grab one. But the claw sucks. Spindly little fingers can barely hold on to the dog's ears. Good thing Lovino doesn't want the dog.

He wants the tomato that's hiding in the corner. It's small and red. Made of cloth and stuffed with fluff. Oh yeah, it's fluffy all right. Lovino can tell. He sees the claw machine as he's leaving the grocery store, a plastic bag full of ripe tomatoes in hand. He sees the stuffed tomato as he walks by. And he is drawn to it. He must have it.

Looks so soft and fluffy behind that glass. Thin green leaves, black stitches along the side. This tomato is perfection. It will look so good on his bed, right next to the "I'm with stupid" pillow that he points at Antonio whenever the Spaniard is asleep. After it's on his bed, he'll snuggle up to it.

Rub his cheek against the red fabric. Toes curled, he'll mold his body against it. Soft brown curls entangling with the green. Maybe he'll kiss it; pretend it's a beautiful Italian girl. Or maybe even a Spanish girl…

But he still has to get it.

And right now, his odds aren't looking that good. He's asleep. Forehead pressed against the smudged glass, hands on the controls, he is completely out.

Out like the light inside the claw machine. It flickers. The little jingle plays as the time ticks by.

As Lovino sleeps, he dreams. In his dream world, he looks into the claw machine. The cute little tomato is gone. Well, not exactly. It's in a hand. A tan hand connected to an arm, a shoulder, a collarbone, a face.

The hottest girl he has ever seen is inside the claw machine. She spins the tomato in her hand. Pressing her body against the glass, running her tongue over the red fabric. Brown curls entangling with the green. The hair looks familiar. Dark brown. The eyes are familiar, too. Emerald green.

She's wearing a red tank top. One strap pulled down. Her underwear is yellow. Red and yellow…wait a second.

Lovino stares at her, his eyes wide. "A-Antonio?"

The Spanish girl smiles. "No. Antonia."

"You look just like him…if he was a girl."

"Would you prefer me instead?"

It happens so fast. In two seconds, the girl has transformed into Antonio. His tank top is red, his boxers are yellow.

Lovino jumps. "Holy hell! What's going on?!"

He's awake. He's awake. What a strange dream. A strange, awful, beautiful dream. Blinking, he tries to clear his vision. There's the claw machine. Still full of toys. But where is the tomato?

The timer is done. Doubles zeroes before his eyes. Ok, Lovino, don't panic, don't panic. Where is it?! He jumps towards the silver door. The place where the prizes come out. Maybe it's there…maybe…

"Yes!"

Victory at last.

He raises it over his head. "Victory is mine!" He won the tomato with his eyes closed, literally. That's pretty awesome. Sighing, he sits down and leans against the machine. Sure his pockets are empty of change, the tomatoes are a little warm inside the plastic bag, but he got what he wanted.

Minus the crazy dream, he got everything he wanted. He snuggles the stuffed tomato. Cheek pressed against it, he smiles.

Perfection.

It is just as soft as he imagined.


	50. Paradise

**A/N: For **OmegaStarShooter14**. Hope you like it! I might do a Fem!CanadaxCuba drabble later, I like these two so much.**

**I'm in the mood to write some supernatural/horror themed drabbles, so if any of you have ideas, please tell me :D. **

**And this is it, number 50! I'm halfway there. Thank you for all of your support, readers/reviewers. I love reading your feedback and your requests. Each and every one of you is amazing. Virtual hugs to all of you ^^.**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review!**

* * *

Theme#50: Paradise

Pairing: Fem!CubaxCanada

Let's pretend that Cuba isn't communist, that there isn't a dictator, that the people are free. Let's close our eyes and pretend. And when we open our eyes again, it might be true.

Because this can be paradise. Any place can be a paradise. At least, that's what the Canadian soldier thinks.

Matthew has to leave today. He's been stationed here for a while, "peacekeeping". He sneers at that. During this long Cold War, that has been Canada's only job. Playing the peacekeeper. What does that even mean? To Matthew, one lonely soldier on the beach, it means nothing. He is accomplishing nothing here.

But looking sideways, he sees her. His one accomplishment.

Teresa is beautiful. Dark skin, curvy body. And her hair and eyes are both brown. Like the coconuts on the beach or the pieces of driftwood that float up to shore, soaked through with water and salt. She is the beach. She is the sun. If any girl has ever possessed the full beauty of her home country, it is her.

Matthew watches her walk. A goddess upon the sand. They kiss amongst the fronds, fingers intertwining. But Teresa isn't all innocent beauty. She likes to smoke cigars and push Matthew around. She's more muscular than him, taller and broader. One second, Matthew is intimidated by her. The next, he loves her. She's scary. Maybe he likes that.

They're first time is filled with sweat and the smell of sweet nectar. Guava fruit scattered around them, thick leaves overhead. His toes curl in the sand. Teresa sits on top of him, holding his waist between her strong thighs.

She whispers in his ear. "Eres precioso."

And then he blushes and she kisses his forehead.

But Matthew has to leave soon. He cannot stay in paradise forever.

Today, he is walking on the beach, the waves lapping at the shore. And the white sand, does it not breach the essence of his mind, his eyes wanting more. He looks out across the sea, and there is the sun. There is the water, the waves. The tails of passing dolphins.

Teresa is behind him, holding him in her arms. White skeletons wash up on the shore. A dead crab, a brittle sponge. She crushes one beneath her feet.

She cannot imagine Matthew leaving. This island, this demi-paradise, he can never leave it. He can never leave her. Strong arms tighten, pressing against his skin. She is strong enough now, but can she keep him here, on this beach?

No. Probably not. Matthew wants to cry.

His feet brush crystal sand. Fine and white. Squinting eyes find the sun as it sets below the horizon. A final heartbeat. Red pulses, one by one, and then it's gone. Life is gone. Matthew wants to reach for it, save it. But it's too late. He blinks and there's nothing.

Teresa will hold him into the night. When he kneels in the sand, his hands shaking, she'll rest her chin atop his head and whisper to him. Telling him not to be a crybaby. Stand up, be a man, a soldier.

Tonight, he doesn't have to be a soldier. He doesn't even have to be a man. All Matthew has to be, all she has ever wanted Matthew to be, is hers.

Her lover forever in paradise.


	51. More Meanings

**A/N: Two more drabbles for my Meaning theme. Just to remind you all, the phrase is "I never said she stole my money" and it has 7 different meanings depending on which word you inflect. The last two will be coming soon.**

**So the RomanoxTaiwan in here is a very overdue request by **Ayumi Kudou**. Sorry it took so long ^^", hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#51: More Meanings

Pairings: HREXChibi-Italy, RomanoxTaiwan

**HRExChibi-Italy**

"I never said _she _stole my money!"

Holy Rome falls down before the altar. Black robes falling around him, he buries his face in the floor. This is humiliating. How could he misplace so much money?

Ever since this morning, the money has been missing.

Waking up, alone like usual, he looked up at a high ceiling. It's so quiet in his house. It would be nice to roll over and find her there. But that's a farfetched dream. He can't even talk to Italy, bringing her to bed would be impossible.

He shook his head and looked at the clock. The floor, the dresser, the door cracked open in the darkness. The money…where was the money?

Last night, it was on the sidetable.

Now it's gone.

Holy Rome ran through the house in a panic. Pulling on his hair and yelling at nothing. "Where is it? Where is it?"

And now everyone is blaming Italy. Poor, sweet little Italy. All because of Holy Rome's big mouth.

"I did not mean to accuse her. I was misunderstood, I swear!" He clasps his hands together, ashamed to feel tears in his eyes.

He looks at the stained glass window. Light pours in, red, yellow, and green. It falls across his face. A beautiful church, a beautiful girl dusting the pews.

Italy?

Gasping, he turns around and sees her there. Tiny Italy, hair tucked beneath a handkerchief, a push broom in front of her. She blushes. A rainbow of colors across her face, her delicate hands like flowers. Holy Rome wants to hold them, lilies between his fingers.

Lilies, lilies, lilies. So many white petals falling across his wrists. He wants to kiss him and then plant a kiss upon her red cheek. Her skin must be so soft.

His face is on fire. "Oh…I-Italy. I didn't see you there."

"I'm just cleaning." She smiles. "See, I can dust and use my push broom at the same time!"

"You're…uh, very good at cle—No, no! I don't mean cleaning! You're good at other things. I just thought I would tell you…"

"Tell me what?"

He sighs. "All right, I just wanted to say that I never accused you of being a thief. No matter what you hear. I just…uh, misplaced some money and people were talking and somehow, they might be saying you took it."

Gritting his teeth, holding up his hands, he waits for it. For Italy to burst into tears.

But she just cocks her head, that sweet smile blossoming on her face. "It's all right. You know I didn't take it, so that's all that matters."

"W-What?"

Italy says nothing. She keeps smiling and returns to her work. Humming softly, some classical song that Holy Rome hasn't heard before. Maybe she could teach it to him sometime.

He stands in front of the altar, light falling around him. The money doesn't even matter right now. All he can think of is her smile. Someday, he will feel that smile against his lips, he knows it.

Someday.

* * *

**RomanoxTaiwan**

"I never said she _stole _my money!"

"Then what did she do? Rip it from your hands?"

A drunk Mei is rarely seen. But after Lovino popped the cork on that second bottle of wine, she emerged. Coming out from the dark closet, creeping across the carpet on all fours. Drunk Mei is giggly and wild. Brown hair swept up and falling against her back.

They're playing a game now. Lovino is a witness, caught up in a lie. Mei is a prosecutor, picking him apart.

A sip of wine, a cock of the head. A wet smile covered with sticky sweet stuff. "Why don't we play courtroom, Lovi? You can be in the witness stand. I can be outside it, making you nervous with my questions."

"Sure. Whatever."

Typically, he would never say that. But he's drunk, too. Both of them are full of wine and loneliness. Lovino is always gone. He has a job. He sits in a desk all day and types on a computer. Never his dream job. Mei has commissions. She sits in her desk and draws on pieces of paper. She loves art. So does he. He can't draw. She can.

Some nights, she will sit on a chair, legs pulled up to her chin. And then she'll paint a sleeping Lovino as he dozes on the bed.

Tonight, she would rather sleep next to him. Side by side. Observing is not always fun. So she crawls across the floor, acting more like a cat than a prosecutor.

In a second, she pounces. Vertebrae bend as she arches her back. Falling against him, laughing and kissing his forehead.

This is surprising. Lovino will go with it, though. He pulls her closer. Molding together, their skin touching. And she's all over him, sweeping over him like a wave. A tug on the lips, a gasp from her mouth. She covers him completely.

He is in a waterfall of brown hair that smells like flowers. Tastes so sweet.

Prosecutors really shouldn't sleep with their witnesses.

But they can make an exception, just this once.


	52. Morning

**A/N: For **Falling Stars Of Silver**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#52: Morning

Pairing: RussiaxEstonia

Eduard rolls over and finds the sleeping bag empty. Cool nylon beneath his fingertips. It would be cold either way, even if Ivan was there. Because he is like ice. Snowflakes blow into the tent. Might be snow, might be Ivan's breath alighting on his cheeks.

It's snow. Can't be Ivan. Eduard clings to the fabric. Blinking in the partial darkness, he knows where Ivan is. There are foot-shaped dents on the top of the sleeping bag. The tent is cracked open, the zipper shivering in the breeze. The Russian is outside.

Eduard finds his glasses. His blue eyes are shining behind the glass. He heaves a sigh, grabs his jacket, and slips into his shoes. Ok, let's find Ivan.

Tent material bends easily. He pulls it back and there is the rising sun. Just a sliver on the horizon. Line of gold cut across the deep orange sky. Silhouetted against it all, a figure stands. Shaggy hair, a scarf blowing in the wind. Ivan.

Eduard stands up and walks across the snow. It crunches under his shoes. The closer he gets, the more defined Ivan is. All bundled up, his hands in his pockets.

He looks sideways at Eduard.

"Sunrise is nice."

"Yes, very nice." Eduard adjusts his glasses and manages a smile. "But you should really zip the tent up when you leave. You don't want me to catch a cold, do you?"

Ivan shrugs. "Maybe. Then I could tie you down and force-feed you sorrel soup and cuddle you until you begged for mercy."

"Come on, Ivan. It isn't nice to suppress people like that."

"It's not suppressing if I like them." He flashes a smile. "It's just me being nice."

"Well then, you are too kind." Eduard crosses his arms and looks at the horizon. Red and yellow fingers touching the clouds.

The landscape is all white and gold. Puffs of snow bathed in sunlight. Eduard squints. Ivan stares straight into the rising sun. Eyes wide open. Strands of beige hair fall into his eyes. Deep violet set within his face, his cheekbones sharp beneath paper white skin. He really is like ice.

Cold and piercing. Delicate, too.

Eduard is smart. He can see through Ivan's shell. Jagged edges cut by knives. Eduard could smooth those edges if he wanted to.

But he has to stay smart. He's known for his luckiness. Being able to outsmart everyone, even Ivan. Can't look stupid, can't lower your guard. No matter how tempting it is.

They stand in the snow for a few minutes. The sun reveals itself. Ivan turns to Eduard. "Let's go back inside. Our camping trip isn't over yet."

"All right."

More snow crunching beneath their boots. Ivan's steps are heavy.

The zipper is pulled down with ease. Eduard wants to be smart, but they are suddenly in the sleeping bag, snuggled up to each other. He shivers slightly.

"Uh oh, Eduard looks cold." Ivan is grinning next to him. "Here."

He throws the scarf around Eduard. Linked by a bundle of threads, they huddle inside the sleeping bag. Ivan wraps his arms around Eduard's neck and places his chin atop his head.

"See? This is nice. Not suppressing at all."

"I…"

For once, Eduard has nothing to say. His witty comebacks are gone.

He smiles against the scarf, a blush on his cheeks. "Yes, this could be…nice."

Sunlight streams into the tent. It touches Ivan's face, makes him melt. And Eduard closes his eyes, cuddling up to the Russian, no longer feeling ice.

He feels warmth for the first time.


	53. Rugged

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review everyone :). **

* * *

Theme#53: Rugged

Pairing: TukeyxMongolia

Rough stubble grown sharp in the morning. Sugared coffee staining his lips, his eyes drooping as he leans against the window.

When Sadiq doesn't shave, he is either depressed or tired. Today, he is both. Because Baatar is hard to impress. Adventure follows that guy everywhere. Horses running through the tall grass, nostrils flaring. Sadiq can't compare to a horse. Those gorgeous manes falling down muscular necks. Well, Sadiq has a gorgeous head of hair. He has a muscular neck, too.

But Baatar never looks at him. The Mongol will sit outside, sharpening his arrows, the brown braid draped across his back. Peering through his glasses, he'll look right through Sadiq. A smile on his lips, a polite nod of his head.

"Oh, hello, Sadiq. Nice to see you."

That's it. That's the extent of their relationship.

They've roomed together for a few months. It's an odd circumstance. Two people sent away by concerned friends. Baatar needs more friends. He's too scary, too enthusiastic. Baatar needs to learn to commit. He's too flighty, too rootless. Aren't they both rootless?

Floating around through life, acting happy and secretly feeling alone. Not just alone, lonely, too. Because those two things are not the same.

So Yao and Kiku bought them this house in the country. And now they live together because according to Yao, they would be "perfect for each other".

Yao and Kiku playing matchmaker, yeah right.

Sadiq rolls his eyes and looks down at his coffee. He licks his lips, tastes the sweet sugar. Baatar is outside, probably sleeping beneath a tree or something.

Oh well.

This forced roommate agreement really isn't working. For the first time since his obsession with Kiku, he feels something. Behind all of the showing off, he really wants to be noticed in the right way. Not the kind of attention that comes from being loud or punching a guy in the face. He wants to be noticed for his hair and his eyes, the way his lips curve into a sly smile. Those are his features. Those are the things people should notice. People, as in Baatar.

How long has he longed for Baatar to look at him? The few months they have spent together, roaming the shifting sands of friendship. And he has been sitting in the kitchen, a partner with whom to dare this desert and share stories with. Has Baatar ever noticed that way Sadiq looks at him? Because Sadiq sees that face. He notices everything. How the brown braid falls down Baatar's back and strands of hair fall into brown eyes and moved across his forehead with each nod and shake; the muscular arms and figure; the face, the smile, and those eyes. The wide brown eyes that watch the sunrise. They swirl and eddy, one solid color spinning like a hurricane. Baatar loves those eyes. But he won't ever say that.

He stares at his coffee. Brown like those eyes.

"Want some coffee with that sugar?"

"Huh?" Sadiq turns around, stifling a yawn. The sliding glass door opens. And there he is. "Baatar? You're not outside."

"I know." He laughs and leans against the wall. "Just thought I'd come inside. See what you're doing."

"Just having some coffee. No big deal."

"You didn't shave this morning." Baatar raises his eyebrows.

"I know. Stubble is all the rage now." He smiles and takes a sip of coffee. "I look very stylish today." He can still try to impress him. Run his hand down his face, flash a grin.

"I was going to say the same thing, actually."

"What?"

Saying nothing, Baatar walks over to the kitchen table. Fingers are suddenly brushing Sadiq's cheek. The Mongol tilts his head. Examines him thoroughly, bites his lip and feels the stubble on the strong chin.

"I like it. Very…rugged."

There's a quick ruffle of hair and then Baatar's gone, grabbing an apple off the counter and slipping outside.

"Wait, what'd you call me?" Sadiq bursts out of his chair. "Baatar…"

He smiles, still tasting the sugar on his lips. He'll make lunch later; maybe some have some ashure afterword. But tomorrow, he'll be going out for Mongolian. Yeah, that's what he'll do.

And he'll keep the stubble, too.


	54. Reflection

**A/N: For **AllyHWarner**. Hope you like it :).**

**I don't mean to sound like I'm begging for reviews lol, but yesterday I got like 350 views and no reviews! It would really help me out (and make me very happy) to hear from your guys because I value each and every one of my readers. So virtual cookies to all reviewers, any flavor you'd like xD.**

**Enjoy and keep requesting!**

* * *

Theme#54: Reflection

Pairing: SeychellesxIceland

Michelle opens her brown eyes as the darkness recedes like the ocean's tide. Reality is blurring around her, everything perceived in mirror images. Two rocks instead of one, four strands of seaweed instead of two. Her ears are ringing. Feel the blood sliding down her temple and into her open mouth. The details of the ocean amplified.

Blue water. White foam. Hot fire against her back. A sun blazes overhead. The ground breathes beneath her body. Soft sand that sucks her in and makes her choke.

What happened?

She was surfing…

The waves were strong…

Too strong. She remembers being tossed against the rocks. Like an ice cube inside a tumbler. Hitting the sides, gasping and bleeding and swallowing water. Where is she now? On the shore?

Intricate pieces of life present themselves. Crystal sand. Dead palm fronds that ripple against the shallow water. Shells. So many shells. White skeletons broken and chipped. She looks at them and rolls onto her back.

The tether is still wrapped around her ankle. It's rough. Scratches her skin and makes it raw.

She squints in the bright light. "What…where am I?"

Emil knows where she is. He sees her as he runs across the beach. He burns too easily in the sun, so why he came here in the first place, he doesn't know. But now he's glad he did. Because there was a girl surfing on the waves. Beautiful, a dolphin jumping through the hoops of water. Her brown hair flailed behind her. Lithe body bent as she trailed her fingers in the foam. Gorgeous. Sunlit. And then she fell into the ocean. The current took her away.

Emil runs as fast as he can. She's lying on the shore, motionless.

He's there. Standing over her body. Eyes half-open. Or are they half-closed? Somewhere between life and death.

His cool composure melts. He kneels in the sand, biting his lip.

"Hey, hey. Are you alright?"

Nothing.

"Please, open your eyes…" Trying to fight back the tears. Sees those eyes again, a reflection of himself. Because he was in an accident once. Someone saved him then. Now he will save her. In a split second, he's on her, pressing her chest and trying to revive the heartbeat.

Come back. Come back.

Emil presses his mouth against hers. So soft, so tender, so dead, so alive…

She gasps and those brown eyes pop open.

"You're alive. Thank God…"

"Thank you…" Her voice is tight. Tears pool, sliding down her temples. "Thank you."

And in the moment between life and death, she is overwhelmed. She realizes that she could have died and that this nameless boy with violet eyes and white hair saved her life. He saved her. She is already bleeding. Cuts on her forehead and arms. What has she got to lose?

It's quick. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a kiss.

Emil doesn't know how to react; his head is filled with too many thoughts. All he can manage is a choking gasp. Then comes the soft moan of satisfaction as he feels her lips against his. He hovers over her, tears blurring his vision. Look into her beautiful face, see the salt and blood.

Michelle pulls him closer. Hair tangles, skin touches.

She may not know this guy, but it doesn't matter. He just saved her life. And they can lie on the beach, kissing for just a little while.


	55. Promise

**A/N: For **Alaskan Malamute**. Hope you like it! This one is Father's Day themed, so happy belated Father's Day :). Just so you all know, I used the name Laura for Belgium; I found it on the Hetalia wiki page.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#55: Promise

Pairing: Tomato Family (not really a pairing, though techincally it's BelgiumxSpain)

Leaves hit the wet paint. Lovino's been busy painting blank canvases in the grass. It's May. A hot summer sun bakes the ground. So hot that Lovino is trying to fry an egg on the sidewalk. And all because Laura made a comment.

"Feel that heat? It's hot enough to fry an egg."

Lovino blinked. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. Now go outside and play." A smile on those cat-like lips. Green eyes squinting in the sunlight. "I'm making waffles. I'll call you once they're done."

"Yay!" He dashed to the kitchen.

Brown eggs are tucked into the side compartment of the fridge. Lovino shivered. It's so cold in there. Ice crystals on the shelves.

That's only because it's broken. Laura doesn't want to fix it. She's waiting for Antonio.

So now, eggshell in hand, Lovino watches the yolk slide all over. Yellow goop pooling in the cracks and crevices. He pouts his lip. Mom was wrong…so wrong.

And when he shows his mother the empty shell, hands sticky and tears in his eyes, she smiles and gives him a hug. Cheerful laughter. A tight squeeze.

"Oh Lovi, Mommy was just kidding." She brushes her pretty blonde hair out of her eyes. "It's an expression."

Lovino looks at the space around Laura. Cutting her out of the pictures with scissoring eyes that see nothing but an empty kitchen. Bowls full of batter, frying pans sizzling on the stove. He smells waffles. Mommy loves good food.

He looks at her. Green eyes touching. Two leaves pressed together. "So you lied to me."

"No, no. I was just playing." She kisses him on the forehead and goes back to the stove. "Now wash your hands. Your waffles are almost ready."

Lovino stands in the middle of the kitchen. Tiny hands clasped behind his back as he rocks back and forth.

"Lovi, wash your hands."

No answer.

"Lovi?"

"You lied to me." His voice is soft. Brown curls fall into his eyes. "You lied just like Daddy did."

Laura freezes next to the stove. Heat billows around her arms. But she feels nothing. Lovi is so young, yet he remembers. That single promise that Antonio had made. Kneeling before his son, a strong hand on a slight shoulder. They looked so similar. Soft brown hair and tanned skin. There in that doorway, Antonio had made his promise.

It was windy that day. Leaves tumbled across the lawn. The blades were freshly cut. Antonio mowed the grass like he did every day. Even though this day was different.

Very different.

He tried to keep things normal. Even as he stood in the doorway with his combat boots on. Even as Lovino questioned him and wondered where he was going. Even as the dog tag clinked beneath his shirt.

Laura saw the outline of it. Hard metal, so cold and scary. She hid her shaking hands under her arms.

"Bye, Lovi." Scarred hands waved farewell. "I'll be home by Father's Day, I promise."

And now Lovino is remembering that promise.

He clenches his fists. Unbroken gaze aimed at the scuffed tile. Laura watches the tears rolls down his cheek. Fat, round tears that make her want to break down and cry.

"Father's Day was on Sunday. Today is Tuesday." He looks up at his mother. Eyes wide open and swimming in the center of his face. His vision blurs, his lip quivers. "Daddy lied. Daddy lied!"

"Lovi…" She falls to the floor and wraps her arms around him.

Her thoughts race on and then stop short, why is she thinking? What use is it? Outside, she is calm and composed. Inside, she's dragging herself to her feet, left foot buckling under her weight. She looks across the kitchen, like looking at a battlefield. Her very own battlefield.

Broken appliances and broken knives. This kitchen is screaming at her, reminding her of her sadness. It is a constant testament to the fact that Antonio is gone. Puddles of tomato juice turn to blood. Smeared crimson trails across the walls. Fallen petals from the bouquet become shards of shattered glass. Things lay broken and crushed, and she and Lovino are in the middle of it all.

Her son whispers in her ear. "I-Is he ever coming back?"

Laura bites her lip. "I, uh, I don't…"

"Of course he's coming back."

Someone just walked out of the pantry. The door shuts quietly behind him. A man wearing combat boots. His hands are tanned and scarred. A dog tag clinking against his skin.

He came home earlier today, sneaking in through the window and ready to surprise them. He's been hiding in the pantry for half an hour. But he fell asleep and then he woke up and was afraid to come out because he heard them talking. Now he's crying.

He takes a step forward. Straight towards the family he hasn't seen in months. Towards the boy that remembered his promise and is staring at him with wide eyes. Laura covers her mouth, shoulders shaking.

This is him. Her husband. She smiles behind her hands. Lovi is smiling too.

So is Antonio, his face streaked with tears. "Of course Daddy came back. He promised, didn't he?"


	56. Shark

**A/N: So today marks the day that Jaws first appeared in theaters, and I just wanted to write a UsUk, so here it is. I'll get started on the other requests soon. Oh, that reminds me, someone asked for an "IFC", I have no idea what that is and if any of you do, that would be great if you could tell me ^^".**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review :). Oh, and I'd like to know, so far, which chapter is your favorite? I'd love to know! :D**

* * *

Theme#56: Shark

Pairing: AmericaxEngland

Teeth tear through the screen. Water splashes, boats rock. No, not really. It's just a movie. Some people in the audience flinch. That includes Arthur. He grabs Alfred's knee. Popcorn goes flying every which way. A piece lands in blond hair. Tumbles down a smiling face and into an open mouth.

"Woah, did you see that?" Alfred's whisper isn't exactly quiet. He leans toward Arthur, grinning and laughing. "Seriously, that was awesome!"

"Shhh! You're attracting attention." Arthur tries to push him back. But then he notices a hand on Alfred's knee. His hand, tightly gripping the jean with white knuckles and shaking fingers. This is embarrassing. Alfred doesn't notice. Move your hand, move your hand.

He can't. Some unknown force holds his hand down. It's stapled, glued, super-glued, and Velcroed to true-blue American jeans on the body of a true-blue American that is sitting and eating popcorn and watching Jaws for the first time.

It just came out. Alfred dragged him to the movie theater. "It's gonna be epic! Giant man-eating shark killing people left and right!"

"Uh, doesn't sound very 'epic' to me!"

And now he's sitting in a black pleather chair. It's soft and deep. He sinks into it. A nap would be nice right now. But he can't fall asleep. This movie is too scary. Alfred is too…there. His closeness is almost revolting, and yet, it is intoxicating. Blond bangs hanging in his eyes. Those eyes, bluer than the ocean in Jaws, bluer than the water that threatens to swallow Arthur whole. That's it. Arthur is scared of Alfred.

He's too strong. The shoulder pressing against Arthur is heavy. Tension between a shark and its prey. If the shark was an overenthusiastic American and the prey was a nervous Brit.

Arthur needs to remove his hand.

But he can't. He really can't.

Navy jeans are so soft beneath his fingertips. That's only because Arthur washes them in fabric softener. He washes all of Alfred's clothes.

And this is his payment. A movie that he has to spend his own money on.

Arthur rolls his eyes and finally gives up.

Gives up on trying to move his hand. Because there's no use fighting it. The hand will stay there as long as it likes.

The movie goes on. Jaws kills some people. Some men go after Jaws. Jaws dies. The end. Oh no, he spoiled the ending. Alfred has fallen asleep on his shoulder.

Really? Alfred's the one that wanted to see this. And now he's snoring on Arthur's shoulder. Glasses slip down his nose. A hand on his thigh, a cheek pressed against his hair.

Another hand atop that one. Arthur looks down and sees that Alfred's fingers are over his. Some unconscious movement. Sleep makes people do some crazy things.

Arthur smiles into those blond bangs. The credits roll. Maybe this trip wasn't so bad. Sure, the movie was long and scary and the shark looked completely fake, but it was kind of fun.

Popcorn on the floor, on their clothes. Smiles on their faces. Alfred's closeness is all right. Sharks can cuddle their prey…every once in a while.


	57. Metropolitan

**A/N: For **Guest**. Hope you like it! Shout out to **AnAccurateRumor **for helping me figure out what an IFC-kid is. Your request will be posted soon.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#57: Metropolitan

Pairing: FrancexUK

The champagne bottles are popping in the backseat. Corks roll over Arthur's pants. There's one in the seam. The new exchange student makes a grab for it. Face turns red. Throat clears uncomfortably. Arthur doesn't know why he's here in the first place. A quiet night reading becomes a night on the town becomes a night at the club becomes a night driving around with Francis Bonnefoy.

College has been boring up until now. Arthur came to NYU to study English Literature. Stacks of books in his dorm room. Dusty and leaning precariously, threatening to fall on top of him as he reads. Pages yellow. Eyes red.

People call him a loner.

Francis calls him "excentrique". Whatever that means.

Their meeting was one out of a movie.

Standing in front of an exhibit at the Met. _PUNK: Chaos to Couture_, a costume exhibit examining punk's impact on high fashion.

Punk, something that Arthur likes. Fashion, something that Arthur secretly likes. And something that Francis openly loves. He's open about everything.

Arthur stood with his arms crossed. Lights crossing, throwing his shadow across the floor. In front of him, a facsimile of CBGB bathroom. New York, 1975, a snapshot of a time Arthur would love to be a part of. Scrawled on the wall of the bathroom, three words: dead boys rule. The fake wall in the fake bathroom in the fake world that Arthur lives. Inside his head, his voice is loud. He's screaming.

Outside, he's silent. He's pretending.

No one thinks he has an opinion. How wrong they are.

How right Francis is, the man that came up behind him.

"I always knew you were like this."

Arthur turned around. "Excuse me?"

Francis walked up, offering his hand. "Francis Bonnefoy. You're in my Film as Art class."

"Oh, uh, hi." He nervously took the hand. "I'm Arthur."

"Just Arthur? You must have a last name."

Those eyes made him nervous. All blue and deep. Brushstrokes curling, ink drying. Because Arthur knows art. His major is not a reflection of his passion. He looks at people and sees them in a different way. Feathery pencil lines and drops of paint. Francis is a masterpiece. A French painting that hangs in the coolest clubs, the hottest bars.

Arthur had seen him before. Of course. Sitting in the front row of the classroom with his chin in his hands.

But he had never talked to him.

There, in the Met, he wanted to. Feeling that hand in his, so soft and strong, he felt the desire to talk.

"My last name's Kirkland."

"I was right." Francis smiled, fingers curving against Arthur's palm.

"Right about what?"

"About you." And then he planted a kiss on Arthur's cheek and walked away.

Arthur still does not know what Francis meant by that.

And now he's sitting in one of Francis' nice cars. Yes, one of them. Because Francis has three. He bought them within the first month he was here.

Arthur is barely getting by. He's pouring every last cent into his education in America. Francis is filthy rich. But that's alright. They're different, but the same. That day at the Met links them together.

Tonight started out simple enough. Arthur was reading The Age Of Innocence while lying on his bed. Francis knocked on his door.

The door opened slowly. "How do you know where I live?"

"I know everything. Now come on. We're going clubbing." He threw a leather jacket at Arthur and pulled him into the hallway.

Being pulled into the hallway was just the start. Then he was pulled into a Bentley.

The Bentley he is sitting in now. He's in the backseat, right next to Francis. Another person is driving, someone Arthur doesn't know. They blast house music and move their head back and forth.

Francis is still grabbing at that cork. But the cork has rolled onto the floor.

Arthur sighs and leans back against the leather. There's champagne all over his shirt. Strawberry wine drips from Francis' lips. Who put it there?

The bottle of wine lies next to Arthur.

He looks at the scene that unfolds around him. Paint splattered on this wild canvas. Dots of pink, trails of black falling from a wet brush.

"Let's drive to the Met," someone says.

"Hell yeah, the Met," someone answers.

And then he realizes that the first someone is Francis.

The second someone is him.

He feels like Nick in the Great Gatsby. And Gatsby's head is in his lap.

His mind buzzing, he looks down at Francis. "You…you are my Gatsby."

Francis grins, giggling as he does so. "Thanks, old sport."

They'll keep driving, heading straight for the Met. Maybe Francis will stand on a table and dance. Then he'll pull Arthur up and they'll run through the exhibit. Folds of clothing brushing their faces. Colors popping like champagne bottles.

They'll run and run through the streets of New York, and one fine morning—

So they drive on, cars against the traffic, heading into the future.


	58. Test

**A/N: For** AnAccurateRumor**. Hope you like it! This one was a lot of fun to write ^^. P.S: I am on vacation right now, so I won't be able to update as quickly, but I will try my best!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :D**

* * *

Theme#58: Test

Pairing: AmericaxChina

He leaves his glasses in the locker room. Yao almost sits on them as he goes to put on his shoes. But he sees them just in time, glinting on the wooden bench. Sunlight streams in from the rectangular windows, the ones all the way at the top of the wall. Outside, there's a basketball court and a soccer field.

Yao never goes out there, except when he has to. And P.E is one of those times he has to. He would much rather be reading in the library. This physical fitness stuff, it just isn't his thing. Running and hitting and scoring, he can't do it. Jocks elbow him and laugh when he falls. The showers are worse. He doesn't want anyone to see the scars on his back. Sometimes, he'll lean against the tile and listen for the sound of footsteps.

Guys walking across the wet floor, leaving. And he'll wait until they are all gone. The feeling never fails to come, though. The feeling that he is being watched. Someone is always there, just behind the shower curtain. A dark shadow that could be anything. Sports equipment, a trick of the light, anything. But for some reason, Yao knows it is a person.

So when he almost sits on the glasses, the feeling is stronger than ever. He picks them up. Holds them gently in his fingers. Whose glasses are they? Why are they here? Could they be _his_?

Dozens of questions.

These glasses are a precious artifact. Because they could be _his_, Alfred F. Jones. The quarter-back on the football team, the loudest and craziest senior in the entire school. He walks around with his bomber jacket slung over one shoulder, his jersey underneath.

Yao walks around with his books pressed against his chest, his sweater vest tight over the white button-up.

Who doesn't notice Alfred?

Who notices Yao?

Answer to question one: No one.

Answer to question two: No one.

These are the answers in Yao's brain. Write them down on college-ruled paper and keep them close to your heart. They're true, they will always be true. No one cares about some honor roll student dragging his feet down the halls.

But these answers aren't right. Yao has actually failed this test.

In Alfred's mind, the answers go like this.

Answer to question one: Everyone. People notice the jock, the star. They all miss the real person lying beneath. Under that bomber jacket and flashy jersey, he is alone. People don't notice him, they notice what he does.

Answer to question two: He notices Yao. Alfred sees him standing on the edge of the court, feet teetering on the white line. Alfred wants to talk to him, and when everyone leaves the locker room, he stays behind.

Behind that shower curtain, Yao stands in his towel, listening to footsteps. On the other side of that shower curtain, Alfred waits. He waits for Yao to come out. But he never does.

Now he stands behind a locker. Vision blurry from lack of glasses, hands trembling from lack of confidence. Him, lack confidence? How could he ever be scared?

He left his glasses on accident. They're sitting on the wooden bench. Well, they were sitting on the bench. Now they are in Yao's hands.

Yao looks at them. Wet hair clings to drying skin. He's fully dressed again, out of those P.E clothes and into his sweater vest.

Looking around, he listens for footsteps. He's alone, so maybe he could just try it…

He puts on the glasses, blinking in the fog and sunlight. Steam from the shower makes it hard to see. Wow, Alfred F. Jones' vision is terrible.

Yao feels himself blush. No, nothing about Alfred F. Jones is terrible. On the contrary, everything about him is wonderful.

This wonderful person is spying on Yao right now. He peers around the locker, sees Yao in the glasses, and wants to die. Wow, Yao Wang looks awesome in glasses.

Neither of them can see. Yao wearing the glasses. Alfred wearing nothing but a towel. Both of them wander across the floor, feeling the puddles under their feet. Puddles are so wet, steam is so hot, skin is so soft; sweater vests are so…scratchy?

"Woah!"

"Who's there?"

Alfred and Yao collide in the locker room. Black hair falling against sunburnt skin. Blond hair brushing rolled up sleeves. They struggle for a moment, grabbing onto each other in a panic, trying to stand up.

And then they're both breathing hard and Yao's face is red and so is Alfred's.

Alfred laughs awkwardly and adjusts his towel. Wait, what towel? It's no longer there.

Yao's gaze is fixed, his mouth open. "Oh, uh…" He turns his head and holds out his hand. "Here are your glasses."

Alfred laughs again. "Thanks."

"And here's something to….uh, cover up with." Yao has taken off his sweater vest. He offers it to Alfred with trembling fingers.

See, anyone can lose confidence. Even the smartest kid in school. Even the most popular kid in school.

The jock grabs the nerd's sweater vest and their trembling fingers touch.

This is it, the ultimate test.

Neither of them pull their fingers away.

They pass.


	59. Counting

**A/N: For **Demoness99**. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :)**

* * *

Theme#59: Counting

Pairing: DenmarkxSweden

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

One: I'll be a spy for you.

Mathias sits outside the ice cream shop. Drops of vanilla on the table, smears of strawberry across his lips. There's a tree beside him. Outside, the sun is strong. Passes through the fabric awning, passes through the thick leaves. A kaleidoscope of green and yellow on his face. He's spying on Berwald again.

So he has become a spy, but not for Berwald's sake. He's a double agent, hiding behind a cone and clenching his fist in anger. Eyebrows furrow. Chocolate drips down his wrist. But he doesn't care. The Neapolitan ice cream is just a decoy. A façade for his true purpose. This is a mission. Mission GIB. Get Inside Berwald. No wait, that sounds wrong. Mission…Mission…

He can't think of anything, so he goes back to glaring and gripping his cone with white knuckles.

Mathias blinks and adds this to the list.

The "How do I love thee" list. It is long and extensive. And someday, some glorious day, he will rip out that list and show it to Berwald. Berwald will still be expressionless, though. Eyes blank behind reflective glasses. They are reflective because Tino cleans them all the time. Stupid Tino, he always gets in the way. But Berwald will still hold on to his arm. Berwald will always look at Tino, never at Mathias.

So how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Two: I'll show off for you.

Mathias balances a soccer ball on his forehead. He laughs and spins around in the grass. Blond hair wild, eyes glinting. His classmates are watching and oohing and awing like he's some kind of star.

Well, he is a star. He's the king.

But not to Berwald. Berwald's on the basketball court, comforting a crying Tino and slowly patting his head. Stupid Tino, he always gets the attention. A basketball to the face, a red bump on his forehead. Berwald goes to get a Band-Aid.

"One second, wife."

Mathias hears this.

And then the soccer ball falls off his head. He growls and kicks it into the nearest net. Classmates clap. No, stop clapping! That wasn't part of the plan!

Another thing to add to his list.

So let me say it again, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Three: I'll sing "Kiss the Girl" for you.

It's drama class and they are presenting their projects. Mathias is doing a song from the Little Mermaid.

The teacher raises her eyebrows. "And what deep connection do you have with this piece of music? That was the assignment, Mathias, pick a song or play that means something to you and perform a portion of it."

"It means the world to me! It represents my home country, Teach." He winks and rolls up his sleeves. "Now, fasten your seatbelts."

He flashes a smile at Berwald.

The Swede is expressionless as usual.

Mathias lowers his head and takes a deep breath. The music starts, eyes look up, and he throws himself into the song.

There it goes. Notes rising and falling.

_"Sha-la-la-la-la-la my, oh, my! Look at the boy too shy. He ain't gonna kiss the girl."_

Berwald is still expressionless.

Crap.

Mathias can never win, can he? When he finishes, the classroom claps. Once again, attention from people he does not care about. He cares about Berwald, but Berwald does not care about him.

When Tino gives his presentation, Berwald leans forward in his chair.

Really…really?!

Mathias wants to bang his head against his desk. Tino's presentation isn't even good.

Ok…it's kinda good. He performs a scene from the play, Hamlet. How cliché. The scene where Ophelia gives flowers to everyone and acts like a complete nutcase.

Mathias is about to act like a nutcase. He wants to strangle Tino and shake Berwald by the shoulders.

"Are you even watching? I am so much better than him!"

But he won't do that, not now.

Yet another thing to add to his list.

This is it, the last time I'll say it. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Four: I'll let you go.

Today, Mathias decides to let go. Berwald will always hold on to Tino. But that's ok. A tear pricks at his eye; a lump rises in his throat. Mathias leans against his locker and listens to the silence.

And when he finally walks away, he drops a crumpled piece of paper.

It hits the tile. Softly, sadly. Later that day, someone picks it up.

A tall boy with reflective glasses. He reads it under his breath,"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."


	60. Laundry

**A/N: For **R. K. Iris** who requested via PM. Hope you like it!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

**P.S: It would be awesome if all of you could tell me your OTP's and a song that you think fits them best. I really appreciate all of the support and I want to do something special for all of you. So don't forget to tell me! Oh, and leave a review, that would make my night (since it's night where I am right now ^^"). **

* * *

Theme#60: Laundry

Pairing: SwedenxFinland

A pair of swim trunks on the line, water slowly dripping. Berwald had to wash these two times just to get the bloodstains out. He decided to dry them outside. It's a nice day. A yellow sun shines behind white clouds. The clouds are so puffy.

Tino points them out. An index finger aimed at the sky. He sees a puppy dog, a rabbit, a bear. And then he turns around and smiles. There's a Band-Aid beneath his left eye. An Ace bandage is wrapped around leg.

Berwald opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Uh, yes? What is it?" Tino is nervous. He bounces up and down on his heels.

"I…I'm glad you're okay."

"Oh, uh, thanks."

Berwald nods and grabs two more clothes pins. One in his mouth, one in his hand. Tino stands behind a drying sheet. These are the sheets that adorn the bed. All white and soft, just like the clouds.

Tino tries to hide behind it. Shadows move across the fabric. Swallowing hard, he remembers the events of the day. A long day, a hard day that resulted in bloody swim trunks…

A hard day's work, sweating under the sun and breathing heavy sighs. Breathing heavy because nothing ever happens poolside. No one ever needs help. Tino sits in the lifeguard chair, toes curling around the posts. He props his elbows on the life saving device. Rests his chin in his hands, looks out at nothing.

Nothing but water.

Nothing but children laughing in the shallow end.

Nothing but people having a good time.

He sighs again. What a day, what a long day. Taking this lifeguard job was the worst idea ever. But when he looks up, it isn't so bad.

Across the pool, Berwald is pacing. Water droplets paint the canvas of his body. Spackle thrown across a wall. A smooth wall colored beige, sunburnt skin shimmering beneath the sun.

Hot rays, subtle rays. Tino feels all of it at once. Conflicting feelings fighting inside of him. Two waves pulling at each other. He leans forward in his chair. Red fingers grip the edge.

Because Berwald is the only good part about this job. They took it together. So that they could be together.

Berwald looks up and nods. He yells across the pool. "You okay, wife?"

A few people turn their heads. Tino's face is on fire.

It's a quick answer. He just wants to say "yes" and hide behind his hands. Not that he's embarrassed by Berwald…but he's not a "wife", he's just a…a…

A what?

In two seconds he's leaning out of the chair. Answer the question, answer the question. He doesn't get a chance. Because he falls into the water. The chair rocks and he's gone. Hitting his legs against the side of the pool, his eyes wide open.

Falling fast. A front flip, a back flip, does it matter? All Berwald sees is his wife tumbling head first into the shallow end.

His wife. His Tino.

Screaming, he runs across the concrete and dives into the water. He never screams, but he will scream for Tino…

That is what Tino remembers as he stands behind the sheet. Gentle white fluttering against him. Butterflies on his skin. He smiles.

The fall into the water resulted in a scraped face and cut knee. Could have been a lot worse. But he's okay now. Feel those bandages with shaky fingers. Yeah, he's okay.

Berwald is silent as he does the laundry.

Tino has just one thing to say.

"Hey, Berwald?"

"Hmm?"

"You really screamed for me?"

A pause. The dark shadow is motionless. Then a quick nod. "Of course. And I'll scream for you again. Always."


	61. Wonderland

**A/N: For **Wolfy 8D**. Hope you like it! Okay, I went to an antique store today and bought these Alice in Wonderland paper dolls, and so I had Alice on my mind...and this is what happened (haha). This is pretty trippy xD, so I warn you all now.**

**Anyways, thanks to all who gave me their OTPs and a song! Once I get home on Sunday, I will go to work on writing all of those, so look forward to that ^^. Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#61: Wonderland

Pairing: 2P!EnglandxFem1P!England

Alice is beginning to feel very tired. Sitting beneath the street light, head against the wet wood. It's been raining all day. She sits on a bench. White legs tucked beneath her, pale as cocaine, pale as ash. She thinks about the white dust in her hands.

The sky is stormy. Clouds billow.

Black and white come together to make grey. Inching slowly across the horizon, meeting and falling into the other's embrace. They make love over the sun. All sick and warm, colors melding, clouds crying. Alice is already a little high. A little gone, a little stoned. So all of this looks even more fantastical. She feels dirty, watching the clouds roll around the sky. But secretly, she wants to be like them.

To find someone like that.

To find someone with whom she can make grey.

Making grey must be fun.

Alice thinks this and wants this. So she closes her eyes and lies down on the bench. Raindrops fall slowly. Puddles ripple with heat, the air so thick with fuzz that she can hardly breathe. But that doesn't matter right now. Because she is very tired and she wants to sleep.

When she wakes up, the sky is still grey. The clouds are finished. They're breathing heavy and resting along the horizon. Alice blinks. Water droplets paint her glasses. Grey drops dripping down her face, her lips, her eyes, her…

"Hey, want a cupcake?"

"Huh?" Alice sits up, fingers curling into fists.

Some man is sitting beside her. Blond hair, blue eyes. His vest is purple, his smile is wide. A tray of cupcakes in his lap. Who the hell is this? Did he just walk out of a game of Candyland?

"Good morning, love. Have a cupcake."

A cupcake, the one just below her nose. He leans across the bench, twirling it with pale fingers. Pink frosting and vanilla batter. The man keeps smiling. Alice wants to punch him.

"Who are you? And it's not morning, you git." She scoots away from him, trying not to look at that smile.

"Morning, evening, does it matter? It can be morning if I want it to." A flick of his hair, a roll of his eyes. "Oh, and I'm Oliver. But please, call me Ollie, darling."

"Don't call me 'darling', you creep. I don't like you or your cupcakes, so go away!" Alice smacks the cupcake out of his hand. It hits the ground and disappears.

What?

Oliver hears her gasp. Sees her rub her eyes and take a deep breath. Feels her move across the bench, nervously tapping her fingers. What's going on? What's going on? He'll tell her because he cares, because he's just so nice.

"You're having a dream, Alice."

She yelps, jumping away from him. Oliver is right next to her, whispering into her ear. "A dream?"

"Yes, love. A sweet, drug induced dream."

"W-Wait, this isn't right…this isn't real." She grabs at her hair. Eyes spinning, chest heaving. "This can't be real."

"Precisely. Real life isn't any fun." He puts his head in her lap. She's motionless. No reaction, a statue in a garden filled with roses. And cards are painting the roses red and hoping that Queen won't cut off their heads.

And Alice can't move, because this is all a dream. She's high on a bench somewhere, rolling her eyes in her sleep. White dust on her hands turns soggy and drips down her wrist.

But here, right now, she is in a beautiful dream. Cupcakes and pink frosting spun through blond hair like candy floss. This guy lying in her lap…he isn't real.

Not real equals no consequences.

Not real equals endless possibilities.

In her wildest dreams, she makes love to a hallucination. She looks down at Oliver, the un-real man, and realizes that this is all she has.

"You're right." Green eyes float down. Two leaves from a tree, dark and empty, falling into the void that opens up beneath her. "Real life isn't any fun."

"You're quite right, love." A smile, a flick of the wrist. A cupcake appears, all pink and vanilla. "Now take a bite."

Alice nods slowly.

Possessed.

"All right…it does look…yummy." Head cocks, bangs fall into her face. "And then we can be like the clouds and make grey."

Oliver shakes his head. "No. Not grey. Together, we'll make so much more."

Another slow nod. "Yeah, you're right. Cause I'm boring, like vanilla. And you're…you're full of it."

"Full of what?"

"Everything." She whispers it into his hair. "You're so different."

"So I'm the sprinkles and you're the vanilla." He grins. Those white teeth become sharp. He's a hypodermic needle in her neck. Slowly injecting, slowly slipping, sliding, sneaking sideways down her veins. Her drug is bright pink.

She whispers again. "Yummy."

"Yes, love. Very yummy."

They're tongues entangle. Bubblegum strands knotting inside their mouths. Oliver tastes like candy and blood. Alice tastes like weak tea and despair. Vanilla and her sprinkles. Together, they make rainbow on an imaginary park bench.

In real life, Alice is—

No, wait. Who cares about real life? Real life isn't any fun. All you need to know is this, that Alice ran into her Wonderland and never looked back.

And that white dust drips down a cold wrist, hitting the sidewalk, disappearing into the cracks.


	62. Foul

**A/N: For **Angleterre97**. Hope you like it! I recently went to a baseball game, so that's where this came from xD. I used the names James and Alex for Canada and America because the reviewer requested it, just to clarify. So James=Canada, Alex=America. Keep telling me what all of your OTP's are and give me a song that goes well with the pairing! I will work on all of them when I get home.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#62: Foul

Pairing: 2P!Americax2P!Canada

Section 112, row fifteen, seats one through two. The perfect spot behind the net.

Alex has his feet on the chair in front of him. Fingers drum the cup holder. Black plastic slick with grease and sweat and blood.

Grease from the burger that Alex slapped out of James' hand.

James comes back from the concession stand with a basket of fries and a burger dripping with cheese and grease. Blond ponytail slapping his back. That tiny elastic in his hair is loose. Alex looks at it and grits his teeth. He wants to snap it because it looks so snappable and his fingers are itching. That itch he needs to scratch. The desire to pinch and pull. He wishes he had his baseball bat right now.

He looks at the burger. "You're an asshole, Jimmy. I don't eat meat."

James shrugs and sits down. He waves the burger in his face, saying nothing and chewing on a fry. They sit for a moment in silence. Alex shakes his leg. Look sideways with red eyes, brown hair caught between eyelashes.

Criss-crossing thread caught between the field and the bleachers.

Tension caught between two people.

Alex punches the white hand. It pops. There goes the hamburger. Silence is still there, still golden. Still silver in Alex's mind. He would love to tie James up and wrap duct tape around his mouth.

They sit and watch the game. Both of them want to leave. Alex is one of his moods. James sees all these shirts that say PETA: People Eating Tasty Animals and wants to hurt someone.

One of them loves baseball bats, the other loves the environment. Both love violence and blood. Thick and warm and dripping down broken faces.

James puts on his sunglasses and takes out a cigarette. No one tries to stop him. No one says that smoking isn't allowed. Because people are afraid.

The black plastic is covered with grease and sweat and blood.

Grease from the burger that is now on the floor. Hard concrete pushes against their feet. Like it wants them to get up and go away.

But no one's leaving. No way.

Sweat comes from Alex's forehead. From his knuckles that are tinged red. It's hot tonight. James is still wearing his red jacket.

Alex rolls his eyes. What an idiot. He cracks his knuckles.

Blood comes from the guy in row sixteen, seat three.

The unfortunate man leaned forward to grab a foul ball. He bumped into Alex. He invaded Alex's personal space. Bumped into the bomber jacket with the atomic bomb on the shoulder. Bumped into the brown hair, the broad back, the insanity that is Alex. And Alex turned around and punched him with those itching fingers. It was somewhat of a release. Not enough, though.

So now he's sitting in row fifteen, seat two. His hands are slick with sweat and blood. The man is lying unconscious behind him. James says nothing about the man.

But people certainly do.

Because all of this happens in a few seconds. James returns from the concession stand, walks down the stairs. Alex turns and hits the man in the nose. James sits down, offers the burger, watches it fall and lights a cigarette.

Only a few seconds. And then section 112 erupts. People stand up and yell. A few men run towards Alex.

James and Alex are motionless. They watch the people come.

"Hey, asshole!"

"What the hell is your problem, man?"

"Get outa here!"

Alex looks at James. "So, Jimmy, wanna make this date fun?"

He raises his eyebrows beneath the dark sunglasses. "This is a date?"

"Just shut up and throw me that foul ball."

"Which one?"

"The one next to your feet, moron."

James tosses it into a blood-stained hand. Fingers wrap around the ball. Lips twist into a smile.

"Ready, Jimmy?"

A nod, a flick of his cigarette. "I've got the guy in the PETA shirt."

Both of them are smiling now. Huh, looks like this date is about to get fun.


	63. Wish

**A/N: For **AnAccurateRumor**. Hope you like it :). So, starting today, I will be working on everyone's OTP/song requests. This is the first one! I am really excited to do this. Each drabble will be a little longer than usual. At least 1,000 words each. Thanks again to all of you who review/read. You guys picked some great OTP's and songs!**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review!**

* * *

Theme#63: Wish

Pairing: PrussiaxCanada

Song: Shy Violet by Owl City

_Light up the sky, shy violet angel eyes_  
_ She dried my eyes and drifted off_  
_ While every tear was held aloft_  
_ The heavy rain clouds felt terrible_  
_ 'Cause she made my stormy sky beautiful- Owl City_

Looking at blurry pictures in the middle of the night. He knows the time by the number of blinks. The alarm clock is broken. Glowing, but broken. It's stuck on eleven eleven. Quick, Matthew, make a wish. He wants to wish for something. Something big. A wish held aloft by nothing but blurry pictures.

Flipping through them is relaxing. The soft slap of Polaroids against each other. They are all the same. Hazy images that are always slightly out of focus. Never achieving their goal. Matthew stays up every night, waiting for _him._

Because in every single one of those pictures, the eyes are there.

An anomaly straight out of a comic book.

Violet eyes peering out of the darkness.

Matthew blows up the image on his computer. He studies it and stares at it for hours. There's no doubt. Those are eyes.

Violet eyes that light up the midnight sky. Outside the window, a city tries to sleep. But it's woken up by the blare of sirens, the roar of music from a penthouse party. A child let go of a balloon earlier today. It saw another balloon caught on a power line and it slipped away. Now both of them are tangled around the wire. Smiling and watching the starry sky.

Outside, the city is always moving. It heaves a sigh as the street creaks and groans. Things come alive. A pair of eyes on a neon sign. Those come alive, too.

There is a rumor spreading around the city. Whispers of a man in a black mask. Some kind of "superhero". Matthew wants to believe that heroes exist. He really does. And he wants to meet this man, the one who fights on the side of the angels. The man in the black mask saves people. Or at least that's the story. He haunts the city's edge. But he can't live on the edge forever. Sometime, he has to make the full jump.

Matthew's downtown apartment is his leap of faith.

This man, the one called Violet Eyes, he walks along Matthew's windowsill at midnight. Those eyes shining like headlights, pink and purple swirling. Yin and Yang. Dripping down his face like tears. He watches Matthew type on the keyboard.

Matthew types and writes about the man called Violet Eyes. He puts it online and talks to the hundreds of others that believe. And then he looks at the broken alarm clock and makes another wish.

The man in the black mask watches all night long. He sees the camera lens and stays in the shadows. But he wants Matthew to see something. So the eyes are always there. Within the darkness, there is a smile. The smile that Matthew never sees.

Every night, Matthew waits. A camera sits on a desk. Chipped wood and peeling paint. The wall is covered in blurry photographs. His personal collage.

But tonight, his wish will come true.

He's had a hard day. His boss fired him.

"You're too passive. Not enough initiative. Sorry, Williams, you're just not cut out for Wall Street."

Who likes Wall Street anyways? Matthew was only doing it because of his father. But he's not as charismatic as his father. He's too shy. And now he's jobless and alone. Nothing but a stack of Polaroids to keep him company. So Matthew lets himself cry. Tears are soft and quiet. They're shy just like him.

Tonight, one of his wishes will come true.

He knows the time by the number of blinks. Eleven eleven. Someone knocks on the window.

Turning around, Matthew sees him there. A man with white hair and violet eyes. He's perched on the sill. White knuckles on the edge. Fingers dancing along the glass.

Gloved fingers. Shadow-like. Ghostly. Matthew wants to touch them. But he can't. He can't do anything. He's frozen in his chair. The stack of Polaroids falls out of his lap.

Violet Eyes knocks again. His voice is muffled. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Uh…hi."

Violet Eyes cocks his head and points to his ear. He can't hear Matthew. The window is too thick. Covered in fingerprints and smears of paint.

Sometimes, when Matthew feels lonely, he paints pictures.

His dreams are thrown onto a canvas.

An angel standing in the middle of a thunderstorm. The angel's eyes are violet. Beautiful.

The real life angel knocks once more.

"Open the window?"

"Oh, uh, sure." Matthew gets up and opens the window. He moves like he is in a dream. Those eyes are on him. They bore through his skull. Deep inside his brain, his inner most thoughts.

The latch opens. The window creaks. Violet Eyes slips into the apartment. A shadow on the floor. He stands before Matthew. They stare at each other for a few seconds.

Outside, the city is trying to sleep.

Violet Eyes and Matthew are both insomniacs.

"Nice pictures."

Matthew shrugs. "Thanks." He looks at the floor and hastily wipes away his tears. "Uh, are you really him?"

"Who?"

A swallow. The beginnings of a blush across his face. "The man in the black mask. Violet Eyes."

He nods. "Yeah, I am. I've seen your photos, your paintings." He tries to stop it, but the grin still comes. "It's cool."

"Cool?"

"Yeah. It's cool that you think I'm so awesome." That grin takes up his entire face. His eyes shine behind the mask.

"I, uh, I guess you're a little bit awesome." Another shrug. "Just a little bit." Matthew clears his throat and drums his fingers on the desk. "So, why are you here?"

"Well, I don't typically reveal myself to people. Not really my style. So I came here for two reasons. One." He holds up a gloved index finger. "I couldn't sleep. Two." A gloved middle finger. "I saw you crying and wanted to do this."

Before Matthew can answer, he leans forward and wipes away the drying tears. Feel the black leather on white skin. The broken alarm clock is still on eleven eleven. Matthew hopes it never gets fixed. He holds his breath as Violet Eyes moves those fingers across his cheek. He'll wipe the tears and drift away. Back into the darkness like a shadow.

They're chest to chest, face to face. Violet Eyes only has a few seconds remaining. He needs to leave soon. He can't stay in the middle for too long. The edge is where he belongs.

So he has one chance. What will he do?

He leans forward. Touches Matthew's ear with his lips. His hand wavers at his side. Ready to move, to feel for the first time.

"Listen. My real name is Gilbert. Don't tell anyone, okay?"

"O-okay."

And then he's gone. Out the window, back to the edge. The hinge creaks. Matthew is left alone in the apartment.

His tears are dry. There's a smile on his face. Polaroids scattered all over the floor, paintings on the easel. They all mean something now. He picks up a blurry photograph and kisses it with quivering lips. Those violet eyes beneath his mouth. He can almost taste the grit and magic. Spinning pools of pink and purple. Dripping from the photograph and onto his tongue. Matthew almost feels it.

It's a beautiful feeling.

He'll stay up tomorrow night, like he always does, and watch the broken alarm clock. Maybe his wish will come true again.


	64. Monday

**A/N: For **Demoness99**. Hope you like it! This drabble is a little darker than I intended lol, but I really enjoyed writing it. I will get to all of the OTP/song requests, so all of you who requested, keep an eye out for them this week!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#64: Monday

Pairing: PrussiaxAustria

Song: Uptown Girl by Billy Joel

_You know I've seen her in her uptown world_

_She's getting tired of her high class toys_

_And all her presents from her uptown boys_

_She's got a choice-Billy Joel_Every Monday, Roderich goes to the edge of society. His high class society that glitters under the sun. But in his mind, all of that gaudy sparkle is fake. Plastic that melts into the sidewalk. Glitter trails caught between the cracks. Every other day of the week, he puts up with it.

All of the glamour. Women dripping with pearls and diamonds. His mother buys him cufflinks. She kisses him on the cheek and then pushes his face away. It's all an act. She doesn't really love him. But it was his birthday and she had to pretend. Sitting in front of all those people.

Family portraits hang on brittle walls. Roderich wants to rip them to pieces. He can't, so he just smiles softly and adjusts his glasses as the professional photographer takes a picture.

He turns eighteen on Sunday. An extravagant party lasts into the night. Black and violet streamers draped across crystal chandeliers. Fingers grip the hanging crystal and then it falls and someone screams. In happiness, drunkenness. People glance at the broken chandelier for half a second. But then they go back to their drinks. The glasses are filled with wine.

Roderich pours peach wine into an overflowing glass. He barely feels it sliding down his wrist. His hands are numb. The guests assume that he's having fun, but he's not.

Later that night, a girl gives him a present. A gold watch. She pulls off his cufflinks and kisses him on the mouth. It isn't fun. It isn't magical.

The girl shoves her tongue down his throat and tries to take off his pants. She breaks his belt, digs her nails into his skin. Roderich feels like he's going to be sick. He isn't strong enough to fight her off.

No one knows this, but he isn't strong enough to fight off a girl.

He will never tell anyone. And he will never tell anyone about Sunday night.

Because the girl ties his hands to the coffee table and rips off his clothes. He wants to cry.

Monday is much better. It has to be. Nothing can be as bad as last night. Every Monday, Roderich goes to the edge of society. He must be careful, no one can see. He steps into the slums and waits by the broken fire hydrant. Waits for Gilbert.

Every Monday, Gilbert goes to the edge of poverty. His small stretch of poverty that rots under the sun. Old fruit lying in the street. Gil is careful not to step on them. He values each and every piece. But being poor sucks. Being a backstreet guy doesn't get him anywhere.

Children run through the streets. Dirty puddles boil in the heat. Some nights, Gil will just lay on a bench in a park void of trees. He'll watch the moon and nurse the bruises on his face. Because he always gets into a fight. It never fails. He sees women being harassed in the alleys and he goes in.

Gil can't help himself. He just wants to protect people. In his mind, women should be respected. People in general should be respected.

So when he goes flying down the asphalt, hands clenched into fists, he never second guesses himself. He's right, he's right. No one deserves to be harassed.

He strikes a man across the face. Bones crumble into seashell dust. But the man is strong. He comes back, growling and ready to fight. A fist rams into Gil's nose.

Gil's eye.

Gil's jaw.

The element of surprise only works once. The man beats the hell out of Gilbert. At least the woman got away. She fled in the middle of the fight.

_I'm…glad._

Gil smiles and his eyes close.

That was his Sunday night.

But Monday will be better. It has to be. He walks to the edge of poverty and finds Roderich sitting next to a broken fire hydrant.

He stops a few feet in front of him. Hands dug deep into jean pockets. Roderich's shirt is smooth satin.

Gil takes a deep breath. It's hard to talk with a swollen face. "Hey, man."

"Oh, hello." Roderich looks up. "What happened to your face?"

"Just me trying to play the hero." A shrug. A wide grin that makes his face hurt even more. "So, how are you?"

It's like Gil just asked him to kick a puppy. Those words bring back the memories from last night. And then he buries his face in his hands and starts crying.

"Woah, woah, what's wrong?" Gil kneels in front of him. A scratched hand on his knee. Red eyes widen with concern. "Roderich, look at me. What's wrong?"

"Well…" He raises his head and wipes his eyes. "To put it in your words, I'm feeling less than awesome."

"A lot less than awesome."

"Yes, a lot."

Gil grips his hand and pulls his head against a black shirt. Gil's black shirt. All worn and crinkled and ripped. The shirt against his scarred chest. He feels Roderich's tears through the tears.

Tears and tears. Two words that sound so different, yet they are spelled exactly the same.

Just like him and Roderich.

One of them is an uptown boy. The other, a downtown guy.

But they are both sick of their societies. Their poverty and pressure.

Roderich may have everything he wants, but he has nothing he needs. So empty and starved inside that he vents his loneliness into a toilet bowl. And when he's done being bulimic, he plays the piano at his house. A Baby Grand with shining keys. He plays love songs and secretly dedicates them to Gil.

Gil has nothing, but he has freedom. He can't afford to buy Roderich pearls. He works hard and then he gets mugged and people take his money. Watching the night sky is his only reward. A swollen moon floats by. Hanging on invisible strings, threatening to fall and crash into the city. Gil wants to snap the threads and watch it fall. He wants to cut the moon down and give it to Roderich.

He holds Roderich's head against his chest. Roderich cries and Gil doesn't know why. But he doesn't care why. His uptown boy is hurt. And this downtown guy will do anything to make it all better.

So he picks up Roderich, cradles him in his arms.

His uptown boy sputters and blushes and apologizes over and over again. Gil tells him to be quiet.

"Stop. It's my job to protect you, to take care of you. So stop saying you're sorry. You can cry, Roderich. That doesn't make you less than awesome."

"I-I know."

"So stop apologizing already."

"Okay…"

Gil carries him into the abandoned fire station. It's been empty for years. They huddle next to an old fire truck.

Roderich finally stops crying and lets Gil hug him. They stay like this for a few hours. Listening to the sound of heartbeats and deep breaths. Gil rests his chin atop Roderich's head.

Pale fingers on a scarred chest.

Scratched palms on a scarred wrist.

Roderich hurts himself. Gil is hurt by others. Both of them need something.

They need love. Maybe they can give it to each other on this Monday afternoon.

Mondays are always better.

Gil sighs and buries his face in that brown hair. Roderich smiles against the broad chest.

Yes, much better.


	65. Curls

**A/N: For **OmegaStarShooter14**. Hope you like it! I used the names Romeo and Louise for Seborga and Monaco. This one is a little bit racy haha xD, but it was a lot of fun to write. This pairing is new to me, and I love it! I got a little carried away with the whole erogenous curl thing lol. Seriously, Seborga's curl is hot.**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review :D.**

* * *

Theme#65: Curls

Pairing: SeborgaxMonaco

Song: Runaway Baby by Bruno Mars

_To every girl that I meet here_

_This is what I say_

_Run, run, runaway, runaway, baby_

_Before I put my spell on you_

_You better get, get, getaway, getaway, darling_

_'Cause everything you heard is true- Bruno Mars_

The enchanted presence of alcohol. Hanging clouds of smoke and ash. Is smoking allowed? Romeo doesn't care. He rolls the cigarette across his tongue. So soft and wet, heat on his teeth. Warm, blood-red heat that makes him feel numb. And his blood boils in his veins. There is something so sensual about a poker game.

Tension amongst the people. Glinting eyes, tapping fingers. The heap of chips that flash under the lowlights as the players gamble at their tables. Each human face is masked by cards, leaving the audience wondering and watching. Will the money disappear and then reappear in the lap of an unsuspected player? Will the Ace suddenly vanish from the prospected winner's hand? The air of mystery is overwhelming. So heavy, a thunderhead over them all.

Romeo's toes curl. Nails dig into an open palm. Sure, the game is sexy, but not as sexy as the woman sitting across from him. Who is she?

One of the world's best.

That's why she is here.

Blonde hair pulled into a long side braid. Her bow is red velvet. There's something about her. Like she's a lot older than she looks.

That's all right with Romeo. He doesn't mind a cougar. Because he will have her. There is no doubt. At the end of the night, it will be her that he is holding. Ah yes, look here. What do we have here? Something else for Romeo to grab. Green eyes meet blue.

He flashes a smile.

Her face is cold.

Oh come on, lighten up. Warm up to this wolf in sheep's clothing. He keeps the smile wide. A flick of his brown hair, pulling at the bent curl that frames his face. It's not really the best idea to pull at your own erogenous zone. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning.

The woman watches him with a serious expression.

Romeo is confused. Most women make a grab for that curl. They twirl it around their fingers like a forget-me-not ribbon and lick their lips and watch him squirm. Some girls put it in their mouth and tangle it up with their tongue. Tie it up like a cherry stem.

And sometimes, he does it himself. Just to put on a show and make them swoon.

"Want to watch, baby? Just like a cherry stem. Why don't you hold my hand and look deep into my eyes? And then I'll tie up this curl for you. Just like a cherry stem."

But when he plays, he never stays.

The girls whimper and whine. Oh please stay, baby! Don't leave, I love you!

He just shrugs and throws his white jacket over his shoulder. "I told you to run, sweetheart. Now you have to lie in bed alone."

It isn't always a bed. Could be a hardwood floor in the back of the bar. A patch of grass, a hammock on the beach. All the girls want him. They need him. Anxious hands lead him to these secret places. They kiss and run their hands over smooth, shining skin. And when they finally lay down, the girl whispers that she wants to keep him forever.

Well, that's not happening.

Romeo sees all of the young bunnies and chases after them. Watching them fight over a single carrot is fun.

But this woman isn't fighting. Her face is composed. Is that her poker face or just her natural expression?

Romeo tries to play footsie with her. Nothing happens.

Let's continue the game.

Louise wishes that the strange Italian man would stop staring at her. She rolls the chips with careful fingers. Weaving them in and out of her knuckles. She is a smart woman.

Talkative, but very rational.

A few drinks won't loosen her up. A foolish grin from an attractive man won't make her flinch. She longs for the days when gambling took place is stately parlors and the men wore suits and mysterious expressions.

Of course, Louise has never lived in such an era.

Her life consists of a small apartment in the city, a gambling bit on the side. Playing poker is a secret pastime of hers. Not so secret anymore. Now, she plays with the best. The tournament is long and silent. But it's still too loud for Louise's liking.

She would prefer a small room filled with smoke rings. Men smoking pipes. White gloves on her hands, her red bow earning her a dozen compliments.

That is what she wants. Elegance. Grace.

Not this casino packed with womanizers and arrogant assholes.

Playing poker does not make you sexy. Nor does it make you inherently lucky. The man sitting across from her must "get lucky" all the time. She can just tell. Her eyes roll. She's always hated that expression, "get lucky". So crude and degrading, as if a woman were a prize that you won at a carnival.

This man looks like a womanizer.

This man looks arrogant.

And, frankly, he looks like an asshole.

So Louise gives him nothing. Not a smile, not a nod.

Absolutely nothing.

She readjusts her glasses. A few of the other players look her way. Of course they would. Every movement is monitored.

Louise looks right back. Half watching for a bluff, half looking for a suitable date after the game. After all, she's only human. She's not a prude. A little fooling around would do her some good. And there are so many men here.

The slit in her dress is pretty high. Pink strapless with ruffles all along the bottom. The bow is black velvet. The bow around her neck is black velvet, too. Lacy tights, pink gloves all the way to her elbow. She fingers the cards and tries not to sigh.

This is taking way too long.

The Italian man tries to play footsie with her again. She wants to hit him upside the head. But that wouldn't be ladylike.

Oh, screw ladylike.

The game ends.

Louise collects her winnings and shakes the hands of her fellow players. Yes, that's right; they were beaten by a woman. She gives them all a brief smile.

She is a wolf in sheep's clothing.

No one expected her to win. Least of all, Romeo.

He waits by the door. Legs crossed, arms folded over his chest.

He waits for her to pass. "Congratulations, sweetheart."

Louise stops and crosses her arms. "I'm not sure who you are speaking to, since my name isn't 'sweetheart'."

"Then what is it?" He smiles and reaches for her hand. "I bet it's beautiful."

She rolls her eyes. "Louise. And please do not try to hold my hand."

"Oh, I never try, Louise." In one quick movement, he grabs her hand. "I succeed."

"Well, tonight you lose." She tries to push him away, but he holds firm. They go back and forth. Romeo trying to pull her in. Louise trying to pull away.

"This is sexual harassment!" Louise is too short to slap him. So she makes a grab for the only thing within reach. His curl.

She yanks on it as hard as she can.

Romeo melts.

"N-Now this is harassment!" He leans against the wall, his fingers curving against it. Toes curl in his shoes. Women have pulled on his curl before, but this…

This is amazing.

It is unlike anything he has ever felt.

Fireworks everywhere. Heat radiating up and down his spine. His thighs are on fire. Wow, Louise is a natural. And for once, Romeo doesn't know what to do. He feels powerless. Like he should be the one running away.

Run away from this perfection? Never. This is pure ecstasy. Winning a poker game, drinking a whole bottle of champagne, none of it could compare.

"What's wrong with you?" Louise pulls harder, trying to get eyelevel with him.

He stutters and gasps and whimpers all at once. "H-H-H-Holy hell! S-Stop!"

She yanks on it again. "What's your problem? Tell me at once!"

Romeo's voice is barely a whisper. "Please, I beg of you. Let go of my curl unless you want me to…"

"To what?"

He sighs and looks into those bright blue eyes. "That's my erogenous zone wrapped around your finger. So please, you can either let go or take me into the back and have your way with me already. Just pick one."

Louise raises her eyebrows. "Really? A piece of hair counts as an erogenous zone? You're lying."

"I swear to you, I'm not." A grin creeps across his face. "Want me to prove it?"

"No, forget it."

"Then make a choice."

Louise looks at him for a long time. This man is unknown, unkempt. He has no manners and acts like he owns the world. But can she let go? Right now, she holds all the power. Should she run away?

Without a word, she starts walking, pulling Romeo by his curl.

He laughs and moans at the same time.

"But you listen to me, understand? I am a very capable woman, and I know what I want."

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Louise."

Romeo smiles as Louise drags him to the back room. For once, he isn't in control. And maybe he likes it this way.

For once, he isn't telling her to run away.

For once, bunnies aren't eating out of the palm of his hand.

He's the rabbit and he's hopping after Louise. The baby that will never run away.


	66. Remembering

**A/N: For **Falling Stars of Silver**. Hope you like it! Great song choice, this really fits the pairing. **

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#66: Remembering

Pairing: GermanyxItaly (HRExChibitalia)

Song: The Call by Regina Spektor

_Now we're back to the beginning  
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet  
But just because they can't feel it too  
Doesn't mean that you have to forget- Regina Spektor_

Ludwig listens to the boy with amber eyes. Because it's just too difficult to call Feliciano a man. So many years have gone by. Wars and times of peace. Cradling the bleeding Italian in his arms, lying next to him in the white bed. Enveloped by sheets. By memories and dreams all tangled up in a dozen knots. They have been through so much.

And yet, Ludwig cannot call him a man. He is too young, too naïve. He thinks of Feliciano and sees a child. A small child holding a push broom…

What is that memory? A brief flashback that makes Ludwig's head hurt. He sees it in his sleep, in his waking dreams. Staring deep into those amber eyes, he sees it.

Sees _her_.

A small child in an apron. And she smiles and says, "I miss you, Holy Rome. But you'll come back when it's over. So no need to say goodbye."

Ludwig doesn't understand.

But does he really want to?

Those words spoken in the darkness. Maybe if he picks a star and follows the light, he will find the truth. Truth is always elusive.

It's never lost, though. So he listens to Feliciano speak.

Today, they are lying in the meadow. A quiet place filled with long grass and wildflowers. Feliciano makes flower crowns while he talks. Weaving the blades together with nimble fingers. Petals fall onto his bare skin. He's dressed in nothing but a pair of khaki shorts. They barely brush his knees. Fair skin is warm beneath the sun. All soft, like supple satin under Ludwig's fingertips.

He brushes a petal off Feliciano's thigh.

The boy with amber eyes laughs. "You're tickling me!"

"Oh, uh, sorry." Ludwig feels his face grow hot. And it's not the sun's fault.

Feliciano makes him feel nervous. Anxious, happy, sad. Emotions swarm and he wants to disappear. But he can't do that. He can't leave Feliciano alone.

Not again…

Because he knows that he left Feliciano alone once before. The memories are there, growing stronger and stronger. And then they are before his eyes. It is a tiny seed inside him. Growing each day. Louder and louder until it is all he can hear.

"What's wrong?"

_Everything, Feliciano. Everything…_

"Uh, nothing. Just thinking."

"Do you have another headache?"

"A little bit."

Feliciano smiles sadly. There's something about the way he's sitting. Feet tucked beneath him, bits of grass biting at his ankles. He leans forward in the sunlight. Squinting, biting his lip. Just like the grass at his ankles, the words jumping inside Ludwig's mouth.

He wants to say so much. Tell Feliciano that he never forgot. He doesn't know what he didn't forget, but still…he feels it. A small feeling that grew into a hope. It's still growing.

Grass grows and tickles their cheeks.

Sunbeams grow and touch their faces.

Flowers grow and reach the sky.

Feliciano smiles again. "I'll make you feel better. Come here." And then he pulls Ludwig towards him. Straddles the broad shoulders and places his fingers on Ludwig's temples.

He rubs the skin. Round and round. Ludwig tries to pull away, but then he gives up. He settles into Feliciano's embrace. Head against the bare stomach. Arms draped across the bent knees. Ludwig closes his eyes and lets Feliciano massage his temples.

He listens to the boy with amber eyes. Listens to stories. Meeting in a world of summertime, a place full of whispering grass and buzzing bees. Very simplistic, very beautiful. Times passes. Feliciano places a finished flower crown on Ludwig's head. It hangs sideways.

"Aw, you look so cute!"

Ludwig grunts and covers his face with his hands. In the darkness, he can still see that smiling face. Reminds him of that little child. A girl in a bonnet. White apron fluttering in the breeze.

If Ludwig ever allowed himself to cry, then maybe he would shed a few tears. He feels the sun rays on his face. So much time has passed.

_I guess the shadows reach long, Feliciano. I guess I'll never remember. Look for that star on the dark horizon. Know that I am reaching for you. Everything changes, but I'll still look. I'll come back when it's over…when it's all over…_

Well, it's time to go, time to go back to reality. So Ludwig will stretch his wings and dive into the blue sky…

Ludwig thinks about the stories Feliciano tells him. Feliciano describes him as a "cutie in a flower crown". Talks about his happy blue eyes and his fragile shyness. But is Ludwig really like that?

No, he can't be. Or maybe he once was.

This thought hovers over him. It stays in front of him at all times, a comforting nightmare that follows you everywhere you go. In the form a masked shadow, it follows him at all times.

Something opens his eyes.

A soft peck on his forehead. Satin lips.

Someone is doing this. Who?

Ludwig wants to open his eyes. But he doesn't. Because he knows who it is.

It's Feliciano.

It's the child from his dreams.

And now he's coming back. It's been so long. He went off to war, and now he's coming back. There's no need to say good bye, Ludwig. You never left. You were just gone for a little while.

Come on, Ludwig, open your eyes. Look at Feliciano once again. Tell him that you were Holy Rome.

He blinks in the bright sun. He sees Feliciano there.

A smile on his lips. Yes, he is finally back.


	67. Stages

**A/N: For **HetaliaFanAmerica**. I am so sorry this took so long! I have been busy with requests, and I have been at Supercon since Friday. By the way, Supercon is amazing! So many Hetalia cosplayers! ^^ I found this really adorable Spain and a whole bunch of other great cosplayers. If any of you ever get the chance to go to Supercon, definitely go!**

**Anyways, I will try to update faster since I have been busy these last few days. Look out for your requests because I will do them all eventually! Enjoy, request, and please, please review :D. **

* * *

Theme#67: Stages (this drabble is based on the 5 stages of grief)

Pairing: USxUK

Song: The Cave by Mumford and Sons

_'Cause I have other things to fill my time_

_You take what is yours and I'll take mine_

_Now let me at the truth_

_Which will refresh my broken mind- Mumford and Sons_

Denial:

Thinking about the Fourth always makes me sad. Not just the date. But the number itself. Four seconds of silence as I watch the window. Four raindrops sliding down the glass. Four scars running up and down my body. Finger it with wary fingers. The skin covering my hip bone is pale and rough. Four scars, four reminders. A long time ago, I was hurt.

Hurt by my friend. My protégée. My lionheart. It is empty in the valley of my heart. Small pieces missing. My lionheart stole those pieces from me. And he will never give them back.

But how did I lose him? I still can't believe it.

I remember it, clear as crystal. Looking through the album of my memories.

They are all dusty and grey. Finger them with wary fingers. I remember that day…

Watching them celebrate from the rooftop. I'm in hiding. They don't like me. None of them do. And today they declare their independence. I'm sad today. But I will find strength in pain, I will change my ways. I promise. Inside my head, I think this. In reality, I say nothing. Too many years of hatred spread out behind us. America was my friend.

My lionheart.

I held his delicate face and let him kiss my rings. But then that face shattered. A new one came, it was no longer delicate. He spat on my rings and grabbed me with both hands. He walked into the sunrise, away from all the fears and faults he left behind.

My fears and faults. I just wanted him to be happy. What did I do? What have I done?

Sitting on the rooftop, I cry. There is a flagpole in front of me. Shaking fingers wrap around it. Feel the cool breeze against my skin. People are setting off fireworks. The explosions make me jump. It's barely nighttime, yet they are already celebrating.

Celebrating what?

Getting rid of me, getting away from me, everything involving me. Because they hate me. All of them do. America hates me.

You might as well tie me to a post and block my ears. Blindfold me and hurt me and torture me. Watch the people parade by. They're happy and they're smiling. I'm not.

That was my first Fourth. I sat alone on a roof and cried into a flagpole.

Look up at the flag, Britain. Look up, you who are no longer great. The flag isn't yours. It's new. It belongs to your lionheart.

Tears fall down my cheeks. So I rake my nails down my side. A hip bone, white and shiny beneath thin skin. Over and over again. Chipped nails, sharp pain. Warm blood flowing across my trousers. Like rain or tears. I want someone to hold me.

But no one will…

No one ever will.

Today is another Fourth. I am still sad. Rough fingertips move over the four scars. Raised and pale, they remind me of that day.

"Don't think about it."

He's behind me. He's been there for a while. Watching me watch the rain.

"Arthur, it's in the past." Footsteps on the wood floor. Sticking and unsticking. "Today is my birthday. Be happy…please."

I swallow hard. Those feet come closer. Cold soles and curling toes. He comes closer. Hands in his pockets, thumbs out. I feel his dominance. So much power flowing from those fingers. He's got me in his crosshairs. Eying me with those glasses.

"It's just a hard day for me. You know that." I sniff and rest my chin on my knees. "I'm proud of you, but…"

"You're angry with me."

"Yes…" I'm trying hard not to cry, but my voice is constricted. Face buried in my knees, I silently sob. There is a shadow over me. He comes up behind me and gives me a hug.

Because he won't let me choke on the noose around my neck. He has saved me so many times. He reminds me that I have saved him, too. I pulled him out of weakness. There is a song that makes us close our eyes. Whenever we hear it, we rest quietly beside each other. America hums it.

Notes slip out of his mouth. Alighting on my eardrum, they make me flinch. He holds me tighter. A hard grip, vice-like. I want to cry out.

But I don't. This is a day of happiness and pain. He runs his fingers over my scars. When I try to wriggle out of his grasp, he grabs me with both hands. Then he kisses my scars.

The song is there, hovering around my brain.

_Cause I need freedom now  
And I need to know how  
To live my life as it's meant to be…_

Anger:

Thinking about the Fifth makes me feel angry. I did not sleep at all last night. Fireworks popped and cracked outside my window. People ran by, screaming. They lit sparklers, all golden light that fell onto the blacktop.

They laughed and danced and wore his colors.

My colors.

They were my colors first. He stole them from me. America stole them. I curl up in the sheets, all wrapped up and ready to die. But who cares? Who cares if they dance and sing about how they spit in my face and raked cold needles down my back?

Who cares?

They can sing if they want to. Playing their siren games and screaming at the top of their lungs. I will not hear what they have to say.

Their voices still echo in my ears. I roll over. The right side is empty. I am alone on the wrong side of the bed.

America is making breakfast in the kitchen. Tea for me. A Coca-Cola for himself.

Figures.

Reminds me of the time he dumped all of my tea into the harbor. I grit my teeth.

He says nothing and walks by me. A hand on my shoulder, fingers lingering a little too long. There was a time that hand frightened me. Gripping my shoulder in the dead of winter. We were sitting in the snow, in the street, in the center of it all. A massacre in Boston.

"Your people shot first!"

"I…"

"What?! What do you have to say?"

"Nothing. You get what you deserve, America. You and your people. Because those people used to be mine."

A conversation I would like to forget.

I go back to sipping my tea. America lets go of my shoulder. Runs his fingers through my hair. Our song is there, telling us to come out of our cave walking on our hands. We might see eye to eye if we flipped the world upside down.

Bargaining:

Thinking about the Sixth always makes me guilty. Like I could have done something to fix all this. So many minutes and seconds thinking about the options.

If only I had tightened my grip on this country.

If only I had been a little more firm.

If only I had loved him more.

More than he can ever know. When we watch television tonight, I let him pick the movie. I should have let him choose more. He is his own person, and that's what makes me so sad. God only knows how much he hates me.

When he falls asleep on my shoulder, I don't know what to do. He probably dreams about revolutions.

I dream about someone that will never be mine.

Depression:

Thinking about the Seventh always makes me depressed. I will sit by the window and stare at nothing. He comes in after a hard day's work. It has been raining all week. But it did not rain on the night of the Fourth, what a coincidence. English weather flees the States when freedom comes.

America lowers his eyes. Beads of rain slide down his cheek. Bangs plastered against his face. All wet and waiting for me to knock it off. Inside my head, I am lost. My inner eye widens with fear. Sitting on the floor of my own misunderstanding, trapped in an insane unwaking dream. Reliving the revolution and thinking about the sun never rising again.

What is he going to say to me? Why does he stay with me? Why does he care? I feel like Alice, so lost and afraid. Streams of muddled water flow down my face.

Things were much better then. I had become so used to everything how it was, the little country flourishing at my feet, the delicate face, the love and respect I received. It all seemed right. Then we met up in an old bar and talked. My taxes were too high, my grip was too tight. He backed me into a corner and breathed on my neck. I can still feel the breath. Rough and ragged.

I accepted his words like a vending machine accepting a wrinkled bill. Except there were no vending machines then, just traders and merchants and peddlers roaming the streets. They didn't have much, my little country, but they prospered. And I drove them to the edge.

He suddenly wrenches me to my feet. "Come the hell back to reality, Arthur."

He's glaring at me. So confused, so very confusing. Such passion hidden within the folds of his voice. Is he angry or about to cry?

"It's over. We forgave each other, remember?"

Acceptance:

I stare back, feeling the tears on my cheeks. Seven raindrops on the window. Seven teardrops down my face.

"Yeah, we did."

He smiles, grips my shoulder tightly. "Good…good."

And then he falls into me. Hugging me and burying his face in my shirt. I realize that he has problems, too. I lost America. America lost Great Britain.

We lost each other.

I hum our song into his ear. The words are visible in my mind.

_The harvest left no food for you to eat  
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see  
But I have seen the same  
I know the shame in your defeat_

Because I have always understood. In his triumphs, his defeats, I have always been watching. He is marred by scars. America has been through so much.

He kissed my scars.

Now I will do the same for him.


	68. Turntables

**A/N: Another one for **HetalianFanAmerica**. Because this request was just too good to pass up xD. Hope you like it. This weekend, I was at a convention, so excuse my tardy updates. And I met France this weekend! Ahhhh, my life is complete ^^. Michael Tatum is so nice. His panels are hilarious. If you guys ever get the chance to meet him, do it! Because he is an amazing person.**

**Anywyas, enjoy, request, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#68: Turntables

Pairing: AustriaxHungaryxPrussia (Hungary is a bad girl in this one lol so be warned!)

Song: Girl All the Bad Guys Want by Bowling For Soup

_Now I am watchin' wrestling  
Tryin' to be a tough guy  
Listenin' to rap metal  
Turntables in my eyes- Bowling For Soup_

Eight in the evening, Monday night, and Roderich is waiting to talk to the girl with the nose ring. They are all here for the same reason. Band Camp. A mix of heaven and hell. He's heard the rumors. It is a place to march until your feet fall off, to pass out from dehydration, to hookup with all the hot girls and hopefully not get them pregnant. A lot of people have already done this.

A clarinetist and a tuba player were caught rolling beneath the bunk bed. Two flutists were found going down on each other in a bathroom stall. Roderich doesn't get any of this. Because he's set on a certain girl. The one all the bad guys want. Elizaveta is in the color guard. She wears fishnets at school and listens to rap metal. Watching her is like watching an angel.

If angels were hot as hell.

She's got the lightest feet he has ever seen. Like she's tiptoeing through a field of all the hearts she has ever ripped out of her victims' chests. She breaks hearts and leaves them to die.

Roderich has died dozens of time. And she doesn't even know it. But this week will be different.

Band camp isn't very long. He doesn't have too many chances, but he can do it. He just wants to slam her down on his piano and kiss her neck and watch her toes curl. Of course, he can't play the piano in the marching band, so he has resorted to the flute. Not the manliest instrument, but it shows that he's good with his lips.

But it isn't an instrument the bad guys play.

Gilbert plays the snare. He's even got a tattoo on his back. A black eagle ready to fly. Roderich has a birthmark on his thigh, but that doesn't compare.

He sighs and looks down at his food. Dinner isn't that great tonight. He sits at a table with a few other friends. Not listening, not caring. All he can think about is her.

When Elizaveta walks in, the wind blows and the angels sing.

She's got a few dreadlocks in her hair. Something that Roderich would normally find disgusting. But it's Elizaveta; she could wear a paper bag and still be hot. And then he could rip the paper with his fingers. Slowly, seductively. Fingernails scraping the rough surface. Beneath, her milky skin is hot and waiting for his touch. Those dreads spill across her chest and she rolls her eyes and bites her lip and Roderich tears the bag to shreds and she's there in all her glory and…

She's walking hand in hand with Gilbert. Fingers are loosely tied together like laces on a sneaker. But…but that's Roderich's wish. He's the one that deserves to get tangled up with her. He is the best that she'll never have.

Because she's holding Gilbert's hand. Turntables in her eyes.

Roderich gives up and lets his face fall into his tray. Straight into a pile of unknown mush.

Across the room, a wary Gilbert tries to hold Elizaveta's hand. Their fingers are loose, sloppily put together like laces on a sneaker. One pull, and they'll fall apart.

Because Elizaveta rolled her eyes when they made love. Actually, it wasn't even making love. It was two bodies sweating and moving and tangling together. Tangling up in knots. Gilbert feels the knot in his stomach.

He is exactly Lizzie's type.

Yes, she told him to call her "Lizzie". Is that a good sign?

But back to Lizzie's type. Gilbert fits the bill. He's a wrestler who also plays snare. She asked him to practice some moves on her. He's a tough guy that really shouldn't be in band, but he is. And she likes that. A tough guy with a creative edge. He's got a season pass to the racetrack. And when they decided to go all the way, they listened to rap metal and screamed along with the track.

It was the shortest hookup in Gilbert's life.

After a full day of marching and dying in the sun's heavy rays, she walked up to him. They had been practicing all day. She was wearing her uniform. A tight one-piece suit made of Spandex. Bottom half black, upper half blue, silver, and violet.

The violet matched his eyes. But he didn't say that, of course. He had to be tough in order to get her attention. He wasn't always her type.

A long time ago, he was more like…Roderich. Yeah, Roderich. The flutist with the well groomed hair and shiny glasses. Gilbert was once like that. Then he started wrestling and listening to rap metal. Not he's got turntables in his eyes.

So she walked up to him after practice, deliberately moving her body in that way. That way that always makes him weak. Fingers curled against her thighs, feet barely brushing the ground. Gilbert wanted to be sedated. He couldn't take much more.

"Hey, sexy. It's been a long day, want to loosen up?"

He shrugged. Inside, he was trembling. "Listen, sweetheart, you're a nice girl, but…"

She pressed herself against him. Arm slung around his neck, leg slowly wrapping around his thigh. "No, you listen. Every guy here wants me. So just do it with me, sweetheart."

How could he resist.

They went to his bunk. Not her place, never her place. That is her safe haven. They made out and then he threw her on the sheets and she grabbed his waist with her ankles. The physicality was there. Tongues tangling, teeth gnawing on bottom lips. Gilbert inhaled and tasted her. Something like cigarettes, sweat, and mint. Because she is always chewing gum. Gilberts found it tucked behind his molars after the finished. The makeout session was incredible. Lizzie is so handsy. He moaned and almost hit his head on the upper bunk.

Then she pushed him away and took her uniform off. He offered to help her but she just shook her head and wrapped her legs around his neck. It came off, she took out iPod, chose a song and pressed his face against her chest.

"Go, you have four minutes, thirteen seconds."

The entire length of the song.

The four minutes and thirteen seconds flew by. Gilbert rolled off her and onto the floor. He was panting and whimpering. So much pain, so much ecstasy. He felt the red throbbing deep within his system and wanted to moan until she took him again.

Because she's the one in control. She has always been that way.

And now they are in the cafeteria. Gilbert is trying to hold her hand. She keeps trying to shrug him off. He grips her hand tighter.

She whirls around. "The hell is your problem? We aren't together."

After ripping her hand away, she practically runs away from him. A few people look his way. Lizzie doesn't like attention, so she never speaks loudly. But a few people heard that, of course they did.

And Roderich sees her walk away from Gilbert. He wipes the mush off his face and watches her go. She looks right through him, of course. But the wind still blows and the angels still sing.

Later that night, he goes to the bathroom. That mush he ate for dinner isn't sitting well with him. He feels like he's going to be sick. When he pushes the stall door open, all of those bad feelings melt away. Because she is standing on the toilet seat. Waiting.

She pushes a dread out of her face and stares at him. "Hey. It's your lucky day."

"W-What?"

"I've been waiting for someone to open this stall all night." She hops off and walks toward him. He takes a step back. "You see, I came to band camp to sleep with guys. Not even hot guys, just guys. You can call me a whore if you want, I don't care."

"I…uh…"

She glares at him. "Shut up." She taps those chipped fingernails against the stall. Takes another step. "Let me tell you a secret about girls. Some of us break hearts because it ensures ours safety. If I tear you to pieces, I can't get hurt. That's what I want. An unattached, emotionless rendezvous in this bathroom stall. Right now."

She slams the door shut and locks it. "So, you're a flute player, right? Wanna exercise those lips?"

Roderich nods quickly.

"Can you let me use you and then toss you aside?"

Roderich doesn't know what to say. His head just keeps nodding. Elizaveta smiles and sticks her tongue down his throat.

Shortest hookup in Roderich's life. First hookup of Roderich's life.

And it's…awful.

She rips off his pants and sits him on the toilet seat. She rips off her shirt. Literally rips it with her chipped nails. Then she wraps the shreds around his neck and kisses him hard.

Kisses him without emotion.

When she's finished using him, she leaves him alone in the stall.

There she goes, the girl all the bad guys want. All Roderich wanted…all he wanted was to hookup with her. And he did. And now he's depressed. Because it meant nothing to her. It never will.

She walks away. The wind is still. The angels are silent.

He sits in the stall until the sun rises. Someone walks in. Footsteps on the tile are loud and echoing. Who is that?

Someone opens the stall door.

"Roderich?"

"Shut the door immediately! Can't you see I'm in here?" He hastily tries to buckle his pants.

Gilbert laughs. Because Gilbert is the one at the door. "Wild night?"

"N-No, go away!" His face is beet red.

Gilbert stands there for a while. He watches Roderich blush and secretly wants to laugh again. But he doesn't. Instead, he asks a simple question.

"Do you like rap metal?"

Roderich adjusts his glasses and goes back to buckling his pants. "That question has no relevance."

Violet eyes roll. "Just answer it. Do you like rap metal?"

"No. I absolutely hate it."

Gilbert feels himself smile. "Good, neither do I."


	69. Illusions

**A/N: For **FreezinWinter**. This one isn't a part of my OTP/song drabbles, but I wanted to post it. I love 2P!FrUK. Just so none of you are confused, Oliver is UK and Louise is France. Those are their 2P! names in this drabble. Slowly, I am getting to all of your requests. I promise! Just give me a little bit more time if you haven't seen yours yet ^^".**

**Anyways, enjoy some creepy/cute 2P!FrUK-ness, request, and please review :). Come on, guys, let's make it 180 reviews :D.**

* * *

Theme#69: Illusions

Pairing: 2P!Francex2P!UK

Oliver sighs whenever he is alone. Standing in the deserted alley, he sighs again. Stares blankly at the many signs that direct him where to go. Twirl his hair and suck on his fingers. He just finished a show. The kind that starts at midnight and goes on until morning. So he's tired and squinting in the harsh light.

What a night. What a show. The brave coming to see him perform. The faint at heart retreating into the shadows. Oliver is a well-known puppeteer and magician in the village. He performs sporadically. Sometimes once a week, sometimes every night. He works on his own schedule. A malfunctioning gear that spins only when it wants to.

He lives in a theater. Old and abandoned, he converted it into a mansion for him and his assistant. Beautiful assistant. Lovely assistant. The one with creamy hair and harsh eyes. Blond locks remind Oliver of frosting. Thick, rich frosting that flows through his fingers and gets caught in his hair. He covered himself in whipped cream one day.

It was his assistant's birthday. Louise hates birthdays. In fact, he hates most holidays. Anything involving intimacy with Oliver. He hates it all. Louise the assistant walked into his room and found Oliver sitting on a silver platter.

Covered from head to toe.

Whipped cream slathered all over his body. "Happy Birthday, Louise. Want some?" Pale fingers were dipped in frosting. Coming toward him at the same time. Index pointing at Louise's face, middle covered in cream, ring trembling and alighting on his stubble, pinky caressing his chin. The entire hand sighed and melted against his cheek.

Louise was appalled. But he still stays at that mansion. For some unknown reason, he sits and waits for his…God forbid he says it…his…Master.

The mansion is somewhere at the end of these alleyways. Oliver always seems to forget where he lives.

He thinks for a bit, looks one way, and then goes in the opposite direction.

"That's right. I live over this way, not that way. Oh I'm so silly sometimes, and so cute too." He stops and runs hands through his hair. "No, that isn't right. I'm cute all the time. So it would be, 'I'm so silly sometimes, and so cute all of the time'." Smiles to himself, nods his head. "Yes, that's right. I'm cute all of the time."

Turn left and then right and then up and then down. There it is. He stops in front of it, hands folded neatly behind his back. "Home, sweet home."

Now, this theater is not an opera house or a movie theater, nor is it a theater for actors and actresses. So it is not La Scala, or the Chinese Theatre, or The Globe. It is a puppet theater. One equipped with a spectacular stage and an enormous assortment of marionettes.

The outside is painted a faded gold. The abundance of crown molding makes it appear as though it is covered in black lace, much to Oliver's liking.

He loves lace and frosting and cute little hearts that he draws above his i's. Louise crumples his loves letters and tears them into tiny bits. Poor Ollie. He just wants to make Louise happy.

He walks up to the double doors. They creak and slam back on their hinges. His lips curl into a smile when he sees his home.

"It's so adorable, just like me."

A gorgeous home. Walls built up to make rooms. Red velvet seats serve as the living room furniture. You cannot even tell that it used to be a theater. Move deeper and find the room with the stage. Oliver loves it up there. He and Louise reenact tragic dramas. Not that Louise ever performs. He just stands there, holding the script and trying to light it on fire with his cigarette.

Sure, Oliver loves the stage. But what he loves most is the second level. All of the box seats have been converted. One is a dining room, another a dressing room. Oliver changes behind a screen and throws his clothes to Louise. Fingers gripping the edge, he'll peer around the screen. Body half exposed.

"Louise, what should I wear?"

"The hell do I care? Just put something on."

"All right, love." He comes out in a maid outfit. Louise throws his cigarette at him.

Up on the top floor, Oliver listens for that voice.

"You home?"

There it is. Coming from the box seat in the right corner; box one, to be exact. Oliver skips through the halls.

"Oliver, you pain in the ass, where are you?"

"Coming, my sweet!" He rounds a corner and finds Louise standing there.

Leaning against a wall, he looks even more delinquent than usual. Cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Bits of ash on the ground. "Look at you. You look like crap."

Oliver shrugs. "I've been out all night, love. You know, another show. And this time it—" His eyes fall on Louise's arm. A deep cut drips blood. "My darling, what have you done to your arm?"

"Nothing, I'm perfectly fine."

"I insist that you let me look at that, sweetheart. It isn't good for a wound to go untreated." Oliver goes to grab his hand, but he pulls away.

Louise does not like hand holding. Nor does he like kissing or anything with emotion. Love? Ew. Laziness? Yes. Let's just sit on this couch and smoke, refusing to shave and crushing roses beneath heavy soles.

He doesn't feel like arguing with Arthur, so he gives up. gives up and thinks about death, the only thing that interests him. It's a shame Oliver came home at all. It would have been better if he had drowned or fallen off a cliff. And then Louise would have electrocuted himself or something. Yes, a wonderful end to the night.

But then why does he always call Oliver's name?

Why does he sometime hurt himself when Oliver leaves?

Whatever.

Oliver happily grabs his arm and drags him to the bedroom. "Thank you, my darling."

He lets Oliver look at his arm for a rather long time. Long enough for him to fetch some bandages and wrap up his arm from wrist to elbow. Louise couldn't care less. He pouts in silence.

Oliver claps his hands. "I'm all done!"

Louise grunts in return.

"Now, my love, I am off to bed. I am tuckered out!"

Oliver sits on a low bed. Black sheets and a pink quilt that Oliver made by hand. He vanishes amidst the dozens of animals that cover the bed.

All kinds of stuffed animals, all with blank eyes and missing limbs. Teddy bears with bright red bows and crosses for eyes, black and white rabbits with stars sown onto their fabric, beheaded horses and somber giraffes, monkeys with tiny golden cymbals and elephants with authentic ivory implanted as their tusks, tuxedoed penguins, pigs without feet, fanged dogs and one eyed cats, and dozens of other creatures are all sitting around this puppeteer as he drifts off to sleep.

What a cherished sleep it is. A thin, blue eyed boy draped across a bed with all of his inanimate friends around him.

Louise wants to roll his eyes. He wants to kick Oliver and hang him by his toes from the balcony of this stupid theater. But he can't. Something will not let him do it. He looks at the bandages and his brain is all tangled up with his heart.

And in the middle of the day, as Oliver lay sleeping, he creeps back in. He rolls the cigarette over his tongue. Getting it all moist and warm. He presses it against Oliver's forehead.

The closest thing to a kiss.

And then he picks up the burning candle that sits on the bookshelf and leaves.

Oliver smiles in his sleep. When he wakes up, he'll feel it there. The circle of wet warmth. And he'll smell the lingering smoke. He knows that this is as real as it gets.

A cigarette kiss is the most precious thing in his entire universe.


	70. 33 Percent

**A/N: For **FireBurningHeart**. Sorry it took so long and I hope you like it! This is my first time doing an all Fem! thing, so I hope it's good.**

**Enjoy, request, and please review! :D I am getting to the other requests ASAP!**

* * *

Theme#70: 33%

Pairing: Fem!SpainxFem!Romano

A day is split up into three parts, kind of like the way Lovina cuts her pizza. She likes pizza, a lot. And eating is fun when she's bored and alone. Which happens quite a lot because Antonia has gone back to school. So she pulls a cutter out of the dishwasher. All silver and smelling of fresh soap. It cuts the thin crust into three giant pieces. Rolling it up, like rolling up her underwear to put in the top drawer, is easy.

Yes, pizza slices are comparable to underwear. All kinds. Lacey panties fringed in black. The criss-crossing lines move and tangle together when she walks. See through in the back, they're only for special occasions. Antonia goes to Victoria Secret and buys her these "special" panties. Skinny thongs that make Lovina blush like crazy.

But Antonia loves it.

She'll lean over the bed, doing her fangirl scream and bouncing up and down like crazy. She's upside down. Brown hair brushes the dirty floor.

Dirty because neither of them ever clean. They're a pretty messy pair. Antonia with her turtles. Lovina with her concerning tomato obsession. Seriously, she walks around the house with a tomato in hand. Tiptoeing over Antonia's clothes and dropping juicy pieces on the floor. Sometimes, Antonia sits beneath the kitchen table and catches the pieces in her mouth.

She is always eating tomatoes when Lovina gets dressed. It's like a fashion show.

"I hate wearing this…this thing."

"Just say it, Lovi!"

"N-No." Cheeks are dark red. "It is the thing-that-must-not-be-named."

Antonia laughs and starts wiggling her fingers. Magic fingers. "Ooooh, you're wearing the unspeakable Voldemort thong!"

"Antonia! S-Shut up! I hate it and want to take it off!

"But look how killer you look in that dress!" She gestures to the tight black dress. Strapless and short, it barely touches Lovina's mid-thigh. "The thong makes you look so…"

"So what?" Lovina pulls uncomfortably at the dress. Trying to make it longer. "Not that I care, you tomato bastard."

"You should care, my tomato bitch." There's that grin that makes Lovi want to curl up and die. Bright ivory against tan skin. Lips tinged red from all that juice.

"Fine." She sighs and looks at the floor. "How does it make me look?"

Antonia somersaults off the bed and bounds toward her. Kind of like a cat. A caramel colored cat with lithe muscles and a sexy body. She grabs Lovina from behind, squeezing the hips and whispering in her ear.

"Perfect. Muy linda."

Lovina blushes like crazy. Like love and lust all rolled up into one. Red tomatoes on her cheeks. Antonia pinches them and kisses them with her stained lips.

That is one part of the day.

One slice of the pizza.

But when Antonia goes to her classes, Lovina is alone.

She spends her mornings on the couch, knee-high socks bunched around her ankles. Eating a bowl of cereal and watching Spanish soap operas. Her pajama shorts are from Antonia, too. Victoria's Secret brand. They smell like Antonia.

Scent of pomegranate and musk. Because Antonia will rub her face against them when Lovina isn't looking. She'll sneak up, dancing across the carpet with her painted toes. Bury her cheek in the soft fabric. Mumbling and laughing.

"Te amo, Lovi. Te amo."

Lovina wishes Antonia hadn't gone back to school. Her mornings are boring, but her afternoons are worse. Sitting at her desk, knee-high socks pulled up to her calf. She looks at pictures of food on tumblr and listens to Imagine Dragons. She is so bored. Thinking about Antonia doesn't help.

Evenings are even worse. The crappiest slice in the pizza. She lies upside down on the couch and eats a whole tomato. Dark outside, city lights coming through the window.

This is her day. Cut into three parts.

33% each. Thirty-three times three equal ninety-nine. So that leaves 1% left.

What does she do now?

The front door opens and she rolls off the couch. Antonia is home. The last slice in her pizza. The last few hours of her day. She knows how they will be spent.

"Lovi!"

She runs into Antonia's arms, blushing and shaking and trying hard not to whimper. Because she is so happy. Antonia is home. And now they can sit on the couch and eat a whole pizza. Watching soap operas together and snuggling like two cats.

Antonia pulls at her curl and laughs. Lovina bites her lip. Why must Antonia always pull at that curl?

She answers the unspoken question. "Because you're adorable, Lovi. Te amo."

"I-I guess…tomato bastard."

Antonia giggles buries her face in Lovina's tank top. Now that will smell like pomegranate, too.

That's all right with Lovina. Her day is now complete. Filled up. 100%.


	71. Giving

**A/N: For **username-pocky**. Sorry it took so long, hope you like it! Come on guys, some more reviews would really make my day ;D. If you have a favorite chapter, let me know!**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#71: Giving

Pairing: FemMer!GreecexDepressed!Japan

So many people die in vain attempts to save their loved ones from drowning. Footprints in the sand. Shallow and barely there. Their clothes are barely there as the tide drags them out. Ripping off their bathing suit, their skin, their life in one clean tear. And the footprints disappear when the tide comes back in. White foam swallows them whole. Maybe the ocean cries when it accidentally kills a person. Maybe it is a psychotic killer and relishes in death. Maybe it is a struggling soul trying to contain its demons. Maybe none of this is its fault.

At sunrise and sunset, flaming fingers touch the waves. Lava spills over the horizon, setting it on fire. The drowned bodies burn.

Most of them sink into the depths. Fingernails turn to powdery shells. Homes for crabs. Hair nourishes the seaweed. Blades drink up the keratin. Turning brown, turning red. Naked skin blankets the bottom. Becomes the sand over which creatures walk. They walk, tread, violate it with dangling feet. Snaking tentacles slide over so many bodies. Around wrists and fingers swollen from death. But at this moment, they look so beautiful. Eyes closed as they are cocooned with water. Folds of ocean turning in like the tide.

Most of them die.

Most of them drown along with their loved ones.

But sometimes, they are reborn. Self-sacrifice is honorable, even if it fails. A dead one writhes on the bottom. Tentacles wrapped around her ankles, pearls strewn through her hair. Water can be enchanting. Pearls like diamonds crowning her head. Instead of cashmere, she clothes herself with the foam. Brown hair melts into the seaweed. One seamless string of silk. All tangled up in her own curls. Move softly in the water. Suspended over blackness. Her body is stripped of everything.

Bikini, hope, pride, salvation. Thin strings untied by the surf. She is naked and alone. Fish flee from the angry water. Her bikini is gone, ripped to shreds. Breasts move softly, too. She's always disliked them. They make it hard to lie facedown in the warm sand. They attract strange men and make her tired. And now they are weightless. Just like her.

Weightlessness begins with a jump. Leaping into the water to save her brother. But the waves were too high and her fingers were too far. Athena and Heracles drown together. Reaching for each other in the darkness. Bubbles mingling, toes almost touching. They drown apart from each other. Hands tangling in curls. Life tangling in death.

Nets catch them, ropes burning. Flames burning as the sun rises.

But Athena is given another chance. She tried to save her brother. She failed and now she is punished. Or maybe she is being rewarded. Death is tangled up in life. Oxygen flows back into her brain. Her lips parted, she gasps. Bubbles taste cold and salty.

It's painful , coming back to life. Feet stick together, legs sown by an invisible thread. Athena cries and screams but no one can hear her. Blackness cloaks all.

When she awakes, she is different. She is a mermaid. Her curse and her blessing for trying to save Heracles.

Brown locks cover her chest. Thick curls over soft breasts. Delicate seashells swathed by seaweed. She is alone most of the time. So she touches them herself. So tired, naïve. Her world is empty. Above, sailors tame the wild sea. A desire to be tamed, touched by human hands pervades every aspect of her soul. In the darkness, she dreams about returning to Death.

Above, Kiku dreams about coming to Death for the first time. He wants to wrap his arms around it. Sink deep into its skin. Feel the red pulsing deep within his stomach. A lust for Death makes him tired. Dragging his feet in the warm sand, hair hanging in his eyes. He lives alone in the middle of the city. Stuck in a cheap apartment without any roommates. Walls are grey. Floors are grey. His mind is grey. There are no lights in the apartment.

Kiku turns them off. They're there, but never used. He does everything by candlelight. And by everything he means nothing. Staring at empty walls. Writing kanji on his arm with a razor blade.

Four months ago, his sister died. Little Sakura fell like a cherry blossom. From the top of a building, she let herself go. Now her disease plagues Kiku.

Night brings demons.

Day brings false hope.

He rolls over the cold sheets. Naked and alone. He is alone most of the time. So he dreams about _her. _The woman in the waves.

They met in the darkness of night. Kiku wanted to kill himself. It seemed like a perfect time. Clear water reflecting the angular constellations. All jagged and sharp. Knives waiting for him in the ocean. He wanted to fall on Aquarius. Feel the softness of her body, sharpness of ceramic pieces on his skin. Wetness of water, wetness of blood. He wanted to feel it all.

She emerged as he stared into the depths. A head covered in curls. Brown strands framing her eyes. Wide and green. Gold, too.

They met and he leaned over and touched his face to the surface and her hand rose up and brushed his cheek and they fell and got tangled up together. Death wants them back. They dream about going there together. But they can't leave yet. Because this is therapy. This is what depression does. Makes you long for someone you can never have.

Her name is Athena. She lost a sibling four months ago. She is a mermaid.

His name is Kiku. He lost a sibling four months ago. He is a human.

They cannot be.

They will not be.

But they can try. And they will.

So when Kiku is back in the city, going to his empty job and staring at an empty sky, he dreams about her. Alone in bed, he wakes up, panting and sweating. It is all he can do to put the sheets between his teeth and bite down hard. Rolling onto his stomach, he's trembling and pretending that she is beneath him. Fingers clawing, toes curling, all the while whispering her name.

"Athena…Athena…"

His mermaid with the emerald tail.

He goes to see her when he can. Today is Monday. Another grey day. They meet on the shoreline. Pale feet in the water, Athena marvels at them. She strokes them, treating each toe like a living thing. With its own heart and soul. Fish cannot be pets. Curling toes can be whatever she wants.

Kiku draws her in his sketchbook. He wants to be a manga artist. But his job now consists of sitting in a cubicle and staring at a blinking answering machine. Manga makes him feel.

Athena makes him feel, too.

Put the two together and revel in emotion. Water gives him inspiration. Both of them love it. It is the thing that binds them. Layers between them. It also keeps them apart.

She puts her hands on Kiku's knees. Half-closed eyes blinking in the moonlight. "I want to feel you like the water. It rubs against me, gets inside. When I open up my mouth, it flows in. We take sips of each other. Feel the other's breath in our lungs. Water feels suffocating, yet it loves me. I don't know how I feel to it. I hope it knows how much I love it. Slipping over my skin, infecting my soul. It has become me. I have become it. Sometimes, I want to lay down. The only sound being the overflow. And my hands are full of stones. And I want to drown again. But the water won't kill me, not a second time. there's some beautiful about that. knowing that it won't hurt me. I can get to the point of almost drowning, and then it saves me again."

Her words make him weak. They fill up this empty vessel. Overflowing onto the rocks.

"I want to feel you, too."

That's all he can say.

She says nothing and pulls him into the water. No, she doesn't. That is all in his head. He wants her to pull him in. But she can't. They weren't meant to be. There is no way for them to truly feel each other. Even nature is telling them this is forbidden.

Days go by. Kiku tries to survive. He visits his sister's grave for no reason at all and cries into the dirt. When he goes to see Athena on Friday, his arms are red and raw.

The salt burns.

"Stop, Kiku. This makes me…sad."

"You make me sad, too. Look at the cut on your forehead."

She cocks her head. Brown curls in her eyes. "A fishing boat hit me."

"Be careful." Kiku's voice is small. He wants to believe her, but his sister makes him second guess. Maybe Athena hurt herself. Just like Sakura did.

Tears prick at his eyes.

Her fingers curl against his skin.

They sit in silence. Kiku is sitting. Athena is floating. Stars touch them all. She flips her tail and Kiku gasps. Sometimes, he forgets that she is a mermaid. They will never be together. Not in reality, anyways. Because one lives on land. The other, water. And the water gives us nothing.

Nothing but the sound of overflow. We lie on the bottom and listen to it. Our hands full of stones. Hoping that we fall into nothing.

Water takes loved ones. It exchanges them for people like Athena and Kiku. But no one ever remembers them. Because they let the water take them.

Tangling up with Death is tempting.

Tangling up with Athena is more tempting.

Mind empty, he pulls himself into the water. She backs up at first, but then she touches his face and decides to stay. Grabbing his shaking hand, she puts it against her breast. Soft, weightless in the water. At least it gives them this. The feeling that they're walking on the moon.

Void of problems. Void of life.

They fall against each other. Layers of water between them. Beneath the water, they let the water take them. Kissing for the first time.

They will never really be together. But they can try.

They have to. They'll discover what the water will give them.


	72. Darkroom

**A/N: For **AnAccurateRumor**. Hope you like it! I hit 180 reviews today, so yay. Thank you guys so much for the continued support ^^. Keep the reviews coming, people! I read every single one. After I finish these song requests, I will be doing a new set of drabbles, something to do with your OTP and a certain time period...so look forward to that in the future!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#72: Darkroom

Pairing: SpainxRomano

Song: Wanted by Hunter Hayes

_Yeah, I wanna make you feel wanted  
Baby, I wanna make you feel wanted  
You'll always be wanted- Hunter Hayes_

There's a scrapbook under his bed. Filled with pictures big and small. Yellow edges, some burned by candlelight. Crackled and grey. Some are folded, taped back together. Some were made in a dark room. Others, on a computer.

Antonio has a makeshift darkroom in his bathroom. Turn off all the lights and watch it glow. Red darkness seeping into green eyes. Like everything that's green, he needs this.

Needs the lights that simmer softly. Turning the pictures real.

Needs the darkness that covers closely. Cloaking him and making him feel claustrophobic.

Needs it all.

Needs Lovino. That Italian's face is plastered all over the scrapbook. Hazel eyes looking out of the frame. His curl always looks so real, Antonio wants to reach into the picture and grab it. Maybe Lovino will roll his eyes and bite his lip. But it's just a picture. Antonio needs the real thing.

He goes through his scrapbook every night, just as Lovino falls asleep. Face pressed against the pillow. All cold and wet. Antonio wants to wrap him up. Make him feel wanted. So he goes through the scrapbook and relives memories. Each day is as special as the last.

First picture:

They are hiding under a blanket, Lovi's face in full flush. Hiding from the doll. Just another regular game of supernatural hide and seek that Kiku showed them.

Antonio wanted to try it out. This strange game of hide and seek that requires a doll, some rice, and a weapon. Lovi spins the pencil between his fingers. Fingering the graphite, his body shaking.

"Come on, Lovi. It won't be that bad." He stuffs a Winnie the Pooh doll full of rice and tosses it into the sink. Water drips onto the tile. "Don't be a miedoso."

"I-I'm not afraid, you bastard. This is just stupid. Ghosts aren't real."

Antonio laughs ominously and pinches his cheeks. "Oh don't be so sure. Spirits are everywhere. Hiding in the stove, the toilet…the bed."

Wriggling toes wrap around Lovino's calf. Pulling him closer and closer. Letting the sink run over. Puddles on the floor.

Antonio tugs Lovi into him. Bodies aligning. A face is beet red. Another face is twisted into a smile.

He wants to make Lovi feel wanted. Make him his own. Hold his hand forever, never let go. They bump into the sink. Droplets smack their cheeks. Eyes never touch, but they feel it there. Electricity. Maybe it's the spirit entering Pooh Bear. Or maybe not. The bump against the sink is enough for Lovi. He finds his chance to slip through Antonio's hands.

Laughing like a demon, Antonio chases him out of the bathroom.

The doll has fallen to the floor. So much for their game. But they still hide beneath the blanket in the closet.

Nothing happens.

Lovino rolls his eyes. "You did it wrong, idiota. Whatever."

"Oh, well." He shrugs and snuggles up to his little tomato fiend. "Let's take a picture anyway."

Lovino groans. An awkward tilt of his neck. Antonio's hand against his head, ruffling his bangs. A disposable camera in front of them. Say cheese.

Sitting beside each other in the darkness. Soft wool over their eyes. But neither of them are deceiving the other. Lovino is a sheep in wolf's clothing. Antonio clicks the button. This moment frozen in time.

Proof that Lovino is wanted.

Glue it on the third page of the scrapbook.

Second picture:

Lovino sits on a wooden bench. Military style jacket, a fedora on his head. Legs crossed, fingers gripping a hot tea from Starbucks.

Antonio wanted to show him what he really sees. Beyond all of the sexy clothes and well groomed hair. Rubbing off the occasional eyeliner that Lovi wears.

So Antonio took a sick Lovino by the hand. Bundled him up and dragged him to Starbucks and bought him a drink. They went to a park and watched the ducks swim across the almost frozen pond.

Lovino sneezes and shivers beside him.

"This is a shitty idea. I have a cold and you bring me here." A roll of the eyes. "Idiota."

"You need to get out of the house! Besides, you look cute when you have a cold. I need to show you off to the world." He laughs and pinches those flushed cheeks.

They flush deeper than ever.

Anyone can see that Lovino is pretty. But Antonio wants to do more than just say it. A cup of hot tea on a snowy day means so much more. So Antonio takes his red scarf and wraps it around the both of them.

He wants to wrap him up.

Lovino mutters to himself and tries to scoot away. It's a weak attempt. Antonio knows that he really wants to stay.

Fifteen minutes of sharing a hot tea, their temples touching. Lovino freaks out when Antonio takes too big a gulp and then one of them if laughing and the other is cursing in Italian.

Antonio hops off the bench and takes out his phone.

"Come on, Lovi. Smile."

"No."

"Don't be a baby. Do it."

"I'm not a baby."

Lovino looks up for a split second. Huddled on the edge of the bench, his eyebrows furrowed. Flecks of white float across his face.

Antonio takes the picture.

More proof that Lovino is wanted.

Tape it to page two.

Third picture, final picture for the night:

It is hard to see. Red darkness covers all. But the eyes stand out. Green and hazel. Close and low, floating next to what looks like a faucet. The outlines are soft. Blurry around the edges. Drawn in crayon across the page. Two bodies lie side by side in a bathtub.

Antonio wanted to make Lovino feel better. Better than his fairytales and dreams. Depression hit his little Lovi hard. A sudden wave of emptiness. Clouds rolling like a fog bank. And then he's paralyzed, unable to be happy.

Antonio can't take this. Lovino is sucked into the past. Having nightmares at two am and screaming into his pillow. What he screams, he'll never tell.

Lovino has never talked about his childhood. But something is there. A hidden history that makes him whimper in his sleep. Antonio has always known that Lovino is damaged.

Damaged goods on a clearance shelf.

Something about a father.

Something about hollow eyes and locked doors. Locked tight every night. Fingers clawing at the wood as thoughts roll through a foggy head. Unwanted thoughts.

Lovino whispers one thing into Antonio's bare chest, "I-I'm unwanted…nobody….wants me."

So Antonio makes it his mission to change all that.

One night, Lovino wakes up crying. Scared and sobbing because his stomach hurts and his head aches. And Antonio carries him into the bathroom and climbs into the bathtub. This makeshift darkroom still glows red. They are stretched out in the tub. Lovino trembles against the bright white.

Antonio holds him tight. Turning on the faucet just a bit, they let the water trickles over them. Cool, calm. Sliding down their faces and into their open mouths.

He looks into those hazel eyes.

"You'll always be wanted."

And then he snaps a picture with his phone.

The start of it all. Antonio's quest to make him feel wanted. Feel loved.

Stick it on the first page with super glue. So strong that it will never come off. This is the first picture in the scrapbook.

Antonio kisses it every night. Then he glances at a sleeping Lovino and takes a mental picture. Filling up the scrapbook of his mind.

His thoughts are full of Lovino. And that is all he has ever wanted.


	73. Bricks

**A/N: For **TooBitter**. Sorry for the wait. Hope you like them! I didn't know whether you wanted Safe and Sound by Capital Cities or the one by Taylor Swift, so I just did both to be safe haha xD.**

**Hope you all enjoy, request, and I know I am not worthy to ask...but please review :). **

* * *

Theme#73: Bricks

Pairing: SwedenxFinland

Song: Safe and Sound by Capital Cities

_I could lift you up  
I could show you what you wanna see  
And take you where you wanna be  
You could be my luck  
Even if the sky is falling down  
I know that we'll be safe and sound- Capital Cities_

Strong hands lift him over the brick wall. Pale and big with chipped nails, they hold him from behind. He feels it all, the angles of his body fixed and unmoving. Nailed to those strong shoulders. Bolted to the vertical line that is Berwald. Tino squirms uncomfortably, thinking about how Berwald can see his ass. His blush is the color of the red curtain.

It folds in front of them. Scarlet waves that hide them from the rest of the world. Being backstage has its perks. It is their refuge and secret place. Berwald lifts him up.

Porte: to be carried, when a dancer picks up a danseuse. Except Tino is not a woman, and Berwald is not a dancer.

Tino is a slight man with a slight love for Swedes. Tiny body looks delicate beneath the spotlights. But he is actually very strong. He can lie in the cold, alone, and never shiver. Eyes closing in the partial darkness. Lying alone gets…lonely after a while. So meeting Berwald was a small patch of candlelight thrown across his frozen floor.

Berwald works backstage. Checking the sets and watching the shows from high above the stage. He happens to be Swedish. A blank face, empty eyes. All of it hidden behind reflective glasses. He watches Tino every night. Practices drag into the am. Shows go on for hours. He is up there, watching. Tino could be his luck. He feels this surge of optimism whenever he sees the little danseuse dancing. Tino brings him joy. But he'll never tell.

He just wants to be up there, watching. That way, he can keep him safe and sound.

Right now, they are once again backstage. He lifts Tino up, onto the brick wall. Of course, the brick is fake. Just another set. They live in a fake world. Fake people dancing behind masks. Fake environments and fake words. Read off a script, danced off the page. Nothing is real.

Can anything really be safe?

And where are the sounds? Nothing but silence.

But Tino is real. Berwald feels him against his strong hands. The red blush is heat. Berwald feels it against his face. Tight leotard and bare feet make him…nervous.

Material wrinkles beneath his fingers. Touching his tiny dancer in the dark.

He lifts Tino up. Showing him what he wants to see. Taking him where he wants to be. On top of their imaginary world. Keep climbing. Keep trying to find their safe place.

"Wow, Berwald. It's kinda nice up here. Kinda cozy." He laughs awkwardly, letting his feet dangle over the edge. "Come up here…please."

Berwald grunts in response and climbs up. They still appreciate this imaginary world, so they sit for a moment in silence. Admiring the mini city of sets. Tall paper buildings, sparkling paper stars.

"It's all so pretty."

"You know what else is pretty?"

"What, Berwald?"

"…You."

Tino laughs. "You're too kind. But I'm not the one with the nice hair, nice body, or nice face." He shrugs and leans against Berwald. "That would be you."

"You're my little danseuse."

"Dancer. I'm not a woman."

"But you're my wife, Tino."

He hides his face behind his hands. This is too much. Too warm and too safe. Berwald's arms around him in the dark. Everything happens in the dark. Living, dancing, breathing, pressing lips against strange places.

They are safe and sound.

A dancer and his backstage man. They fill each other's cups. Rivers will never evaporate. Even when the wind blows across the stage, hurricane of frowns, they will be safe and sound.

Safe on the fake brick wall.

Safe in reality.

* * *

Song: Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars

_Just close your eyes  
The sun is going down  
You'll be alright  
No one can hurt you now  
Come morning light  
You and I'll be safe and sound- Taylor Swift (ft. the Civil Wars)_

Welcome to the end, Tino. Because it is all you have now. The world is not a happy place. It falls from grace with a loud crash. Three pairs of wings torn from your body. Apocalypses coming now, here to stay and make its home amongst your fallen world. Except it is not your world, Tino, it belongs to the ones you love. Humans are empty creatures. They are not Sunday sunrises. They are Friday twilight. They are not church bells. They are broken glass. They are not perfect. But in your eyes, they are everything.

So don't grip the clouds too hard, Tino. Don't look down, because the world you love is burning. This is the prophecy. This is meant to be…

Tino is an angel. Wings slowly turning grey as ash falls from the sky. He descends to Earth more than he should. Humanity is slowly dying. Music is gone. Laughter is faded. But he still looks for survivors. Above the hellfire and beneath the wrath of heaven, he looks. Today, he finds a dead child huddled under a slab of concrete.

Tears are pointless. He shouldn't care. But he does.

He takes the child back to his new home. A home on Earth is better than a home on the clouds. A house of poorly assembled bricks welcomes him back. Can't really call it a house. Can't really call it anything. It is Tino's personal sanctuary. And inside, he finds his comfort.

A man named Berwald.

He found Berwald close to death. Trapped and bleeding. Pale arms held his head. Tino fixed his broken glasses with tape and a crooked smile. Tino fixed his body with angelic power that flowed through his veins. Healing humans is forbidden. Loving them is taboo.

He smiled at Berwald. "Hey, it's ok. I'll never let you go."

Tears streamed down Berwald's face.

Shadows slinked back into the darkness. They let go of the human. Tino's light shining every which way.

His light is slowly fading. Time on Earth weakens him. Now it is Berwald's turn to hold a dying face. His eyes are slowly gaining light.

"Don't leave me here alone…"

Tino smiles. "I won't…I just need to rest."

And when he writhes in pain and watches the feathers fall from his wings, he is still smiling. Because this was all for Berwald. For humanity.

He buries the child, Berwald by his side. A shallow grave in their cemetery of despair. Growing each day. So many white crosses marking the ground. Can heaven not see this?

It doesn't matter. All Tino has to do is keep his human alive.

Berwald's emotions are hard to see. But they are there. Tino feels them when they huddle at night. Hiding from destruction. Looking outside is forbidden. The world is on fire. Don't look, Berwald. Even though you can handle it, don't look.

Just listen to Tino's song.

He sings every night. An ancient hymn. The sun disappears and they close their eyes. It will all pass in the morning.

But the end will never go away. Welcome to the end, Tino. Make these last few months your best. Make this love matter…


	74. Reward

**A/N: For **Ayumi Kudou**. Sorry for the wait, and I hope you like it! I am almost done with all of these requests. But keep requesting, I'll finish them all. Promise ^^. So in this drabble, Luciano is 2P!Italy's name, just to clarify. **

**So enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#74: Reward

Pairing: 2P!ItalyxLiechtenstein

Green cherry stems scattered across the white cloth. Tied into bows and knots, like the bow on Lily's dress. Green velvet that makes Lucaino smile from across the table. Across the flower vase, white ceramic full of red roses. Across plates of untouched food and glasses filled with wine. Across dark purple eyes and into green eyes. They stare at each other in silence.

Lily watches Lucaino tie cherry stems in his mouth, then place them on the cloth.

Luciano watches Lily watching him. She is more perfect than he was told.

Being a part of the Mafia has its rewards. Money stashed beneath his bed, enough wine to intoxicate an army, and dozens of sharpened butter knives for him to use. Spinning it on his finger in the dark. He can afford fine suits. Even though he still prefers not to wear them. Maturity only goes so far. His inner child longs for more freedom. But he doesn't take orders from anyone. So maybe his freedom is secure? Still, paranoia plagues him at night. Is someone trying to control him? Is his Boss turning him into a slave?

No, can't be. He takes orders from no one. Paranoia is still there. And maybe that is why he accepted his latest gift.

She came in the dead of night. A reward for his disposal of a certain group of men. Butter knives scattered across the white cloth. Covered in blood and strands of pasta. He swept those under his bed. A bowl of cherries took their place.

Lily is a wondrous creature. She is the Boss' daughter, a delicate flower from a rough lineage of blood and death. A teenager. Blonde hair falls in front of her eyes. She bites her lip when she's nervous. So she must be nervous all the time. Sitting in the chair, her feet wrapped around the legs. Luciano has the sudden urge to protect from everyone and everything.

"You're very beautiful."

"Thank you, sir."

"No need to call me sir, bella." He leans across the table. "You've been watching me for a while now. Do I interest you?"

She shrugs. "I guess. A bit more than the other men Father gives me to."

"He gives you to other men?"

Another shrug. "Sure. I make them feel good. Father wants his employees to be happy."

Luciano laughs hollowly and starts spinning a butter knife on his finger. "Oh, all right. So he considers me his employee? Interesting."

"Like you." Lily stares at him, not blinking. She stops biting her lip. "Want to make me happy?"

"Treating women kindly is my number one priority."

This is somewhat untrue. Away from the bedroom, he kisses their hands and tries to be a gentleman. Under the sheets, he is rough. Some people call him a sadist.

Maybe Lily likes that?

He doesn't know as she stares at him again. "Kindness is fleeting. Just make me happy. For once, I want this to be mutual. I want to undress myself."

Luciano cannot help but smile. His reward has a brain and will, just like him. She is soft, tender like petals, so unlike him. When she drops her dress and stands within its velvet folds, he no longer has the need to twirl his butter knife. Violence is a beautiful thing, but so is Lily.

So is touching her bare body with his bloodstained hands.

So is breathing in her scent. Lips molding against the other. He's a violent kisser. Teeth tug at her lip and she moans, toes curling. Lip kisses turn to neck kisses, then trailing down her collarbone towards her chest. All soft, white flesh.

She is a cherry and he is determined to tie her up.

The freedom to dwell beneath the sheets is there. The freedom to bite and scratch with bloodstained hands.

This reward is perfect. And for once, he is seeing someone as a person. The object of his lust is more than an object.

For once, someone is worth more than his sharpened butter knife.


	75. Edge

**A/N: For **Demoness99**. Hope you like it! Unrequited love is so fun, yet so sad, to write. So thanks for the awesome request!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#75: Edge

Pairing: SwitzerlandxRoderich (onesided)

I am a neutral person. I am not a hurricane in mid-February or a heat wave in December. Extremes make me nervous. Falling off the edge. Cowering away from the line. Both are wrong, both are weird. Standing in the middle is the best. But from the middle, you cannot see things. On the edge, you see so much. Darkness and light and then you jump and take that leap of faith. Why can't I do that?

Why can't I shut my eyes and jump?

Because I know that no one will catch me. Roderich's arms are far away. They hold Elizaveta in the dead of night…

But what do I care? I don't love him. Never have, never will.

So when I see them holding hands in the parking lot, I don't mind. Sitting in my car, wondering why I am there in the first place. Because I am not following him. That would be absurd. He opens the door for her. Combat boots hitting the asphalt hard. Brown hair flailing.

Wait, who am I describing?

Roderich and Elizaveta are both wearing boots. Their hair is brown. Watch them tangling in the wind. I grip the steering wheel, feeling sick. Jealousy twists my eyes like screws. Misdirected jealousy, not knowing who or why. Deep down, I know who I am jealous of. But no one needs to hear that, not even me.

Locking the car, Roderich walks ahead of her. She runs up, giggling, and grabs at his back pocket. Fingers splaying, touching the top of the jean. Index and middle find his belt loop.

My reaction is borderline extreme. Digging my nails into the leather, biting my lip until blood flows. Things jumble inside me. Strange things. Things I didn't even know existed. A swollen heart beating against my chest. Love blood drips down, covering the butterflies in my stomach. So fast and so many.

I close my eyes and lean against the chair. Thinking about that hand in that denim pocket. Once again, my mind tells me who I am jealous of. But I don't listen.

Instead, I rest my chin on my knees and think about edelweiss. Such a soft thought makes sleep come fast. My dreams are full of secret feelings. Sitting in Roderich's lap, placing the white petals on his lips. They're waiting for me, waiting for my own lips. But my lips are neutral. They can't do this. Flower petals are so tempting. White, soft, smoother than a new gun. The way the bullet comes out of the barrel, all slick. The way my face is propelled toward his…so fast…

Someone wakes me up. It's a cop. Flashlight in my face. Night is dark and thick. He asks me if I live in my car and that I shouldn't be loitering. So I drive away.

Home is an empty place. It's where I bury my feelings with a silver gun. Press it against my temple from time to time; think about fading into the past. Maybe then, Roderich would notice me. He'll hold my lifeless body in his arms. Or maybe he won't. And I'll always be alone.

Alone.

Alone in the shower, the feeling is upon me in an instant. Existence is overwhelming, its aura a pulsating being of sadness. I fall to my knees, the soap sliding down my skin. So aggravating, this feeling of tremendous burden and hopelessness. The truth presses in on me, hidden desires struggling to break free. I scream behind gritted teeth. There is some eating me. Pulling at my blond hair and making my fingers curl against the tile. A sudden urge to look over the edge. Because Roderich is down there. Waiting in the void. What is this, some kind of fantasy?

My first one.

And it's about Roderich.

Red throbbing in my core. Rushing blood, eyelashes like wings. Fluttering, gasping as the wind picks up. Steam rolls over my eyes. The pressure of his presence is there. I pant as air surges into my lungs. Let my face touch the tile floor, the water drowning me and clogging my throat.

Words come from a mouth that is no longer under my control.

"How could he ever love me? Please…love me."

Moaning, I press my forehead against the faucet. Hands grip the metal. Feeling the spout with fingers scarred by years of fighting. Black hole, burning hot. The lip singes my nerves. No need to pull away, let the fire seep into blood and bone. Every inch of me is on fire. And I think about the fingers splayed in the back pocket and it burns even more. I'm reaching into the realm of the extreme. Invisible hands force me to the edge. Months of neutrality are crumbling like sand castles. Ocean water, warm and wet, engulfs them and fills them to the brim. Each grain bursting with heat. Salt tastes good. Lick it off burning skin and burning brown curls that roll into themselves. I am receding into myself. Like the tide. But then I am pulling back out. Back and forth.

Moon tugging at every limb. I am a puppet.

It is official, I have been pushed over the edge. When I open my eyes, I can almost see Roderich hovering over me. Glasses fogging. But he isn't there. He's with Elizaveta. And it is her hand that he wants in his back pocket. Ripped denim exposing those long fingers.

My fingers may be scarred and rough, but they can be protective. Soft and compassionate.

He'll probably never know. But now that I am over the edge, maybe I can find some courage. Put those guns away. Hide them in the cabinet.

Go back to edelweiss.

Pluck the petals off and throw them over the edge.

I can be extreme. I know I can. And then Roderich will see me and want my hand splayed against the denim. And he'll want me, scarred hands and all.


	76. Candy

**A/N: For **MaliceArchangela**. Hope you like it! I really love fairytales and recently watched Hansel and Gretal: Witch Hunters, so this idea just popped into my head. Wasn't my favorite movie, but the action was so over-the-top awesome and I loved how Hansel was diabetic, so I incorporated his "sugar sickness" into this lol.**

**Anywho, enjoy, request, and please review :) Reviews really motivate me. P.S, I've got some more Song/OTP requests to write, but I would love to hear some ideas from you guys about potential sick fics for me to write. I love a good sick fic, so tell me if you have any pairings for this idea. Thanks :). Enjoy!**

* * *

Theme#76: Candy

Pairing: Male!BelarusxFem!Lithuania

Pixie dust is black and swirling around his boots. Coarse, falling through cracks in the sidewalk. Sky is cracked, too. Pieces hit his head. Bits of ashy cloud, frozen raindrops on the back of his neck. Living in the middle of Grimm City is like living in a broken mirror. Shards slice cold skin. Nickolai doesn't flinch. Face is blank, empty pages blowing across the road. He's standing in the bottom of a pit, black buildings all around. He feels it. Metal poking his back, a spinal tap. Needles in between his vertebrae.

Still, no flinching. Blond hair silvering against his forehead. The angry red of a slapped face brings nails to his cheek. Cracked nails that smell of old books and grime.

"Come on, Nick. We need to get your medication."

Tori is next to him. Short as ever, her hair strung across her face. The scars are always there. Carved by claws and sharp demon teeth. She wears them with pride; at least, she tries to.

At night, Tori huddles in her little corner and cries. The corner of the second-hand car that smells of hypodermic needles. Because they live in that car. Small and red, it carries them through life. On black wheels torn to shreds.

Tori is torn to shred sometimes. Beneath Nickolai, she is ripped apart. But not in the way Mr. Wolf rips up Little Red. Not in the way Hook rips up Wendy. It's beautiful. Shattering glass and widening eyes that shrink and dilate in the dark. Sweaty hands on the steamed windows. Cracked ever the slightest, the cold air of the city coming in.

This city is always cold. Grimm City is known for that. Nickolai and Tori live in the middle of it all. Holed up in a car with seats painted black. Everyone lives here. Everyone important, anyways.

Cinderella runs the strip club, Goldilocks sleeps in anyone's bed for ten dollars an hour, Prince Charming kills peoples with a smile on his face. All of them broken and wanting.

Wanting attention.

Wanting love.

Wanting power.

Tori and Nickolai want stuff, too. Revenge is just one of those things. They used to be children with different names. Childhood friends that met in an iron cage. Both of them were victims, abducted by a psychopathic witch at a young age. Cannibalism is never fun. So they murdered the witch and became friends. Deep, dark friends that consummated their friendship in the depths of night. Under a ceiling fan that never stops.

And now they fight. Demons, monsters, common thieves and scum that wander the streets. Mercenary work can be fun.

Except for the times it isn't fun. Like when they get hurt. Nickolai needs his medication to combat his disease.

Being diabetic isn't too bad. But without insulin, it's hell. Medicine is expensive in Grimm City. Passed along the black market by shaking hands. Tori walks in with her eyes cast down; shoulders slumped and fingers pulling at her hair. Then she transforms into a badass. Remembering moves from old books and jamming her switchblade into beating hearts.

"Here, Nick. I-I got it for you…"

She kneels before him, an offering to her dark lord. Nickolai takes it with a muttered, "Thanks".

He appreciates her, he really does. But he can't say anything. Protectiveness replaces compassion. Obsession overrides sanity. He loves her, the timid girl that helped him murder the witch. Once a stranger, now a lover. She is scarred beneath the flickering lights. Breathing hard, blood dripping down her face.

"Do it for me…please, Tori."

He thrusts the insulin into her hand. A needle between her fingers. And now it starts. They're little game. Pin the needle on Nickolai. Once it's in and he's no longer dizzy, they roll against the wall. Pretending it's the floor and that they are defying gravity. Feeling for pinholes on scarred skin. They inhale, pulling out bits of each other. Ghosts sucking out memories from the living. But who is dead and who is alive? No one knows. Chipped teeth tug at chapped lips. Everything about them ripped and torn, but no one cares. They'll shred like paper. Pulling apart even more as nails dig into white spines. Fingernails deep in agony, ecstasy up to their eyeballs. Eyeballs rolling across wooden floors. Breaths smell of sour candy mixed with booze.

Nickolai cannot hold his liquor. He swears he can. But when he's drunk, he cries into Tori's shoulder.

She never talks about those nights. Those are the secrets that she keeps.

From moonless to shining full, she remembers every one. Every stuttering apology and sobbing confession. And she loves those memories.

They keep fighting. This duo of darkness. They look for Nickolai's medication again. Tori's nails on his cheek.

Nothing to be found.

They walk, hand in hand. A bar of chocolate hanging out of his mouth.

"Try to get your blood sugar up, Nick. Have a lollipop."

He takes the white stick, combining it with the squares of chocolate. Not bad.

So they're walking on a darkened street at night, the breaths of midnight following close behind them. Blackened claws dripping with shadows, creeping close behind. The edges of Nickolai's sight are misting, his mind reeling. But he'll ignore it. Because this moment is perfection. Symmetrical shards of glass tossed across the road.

Walking in some deserted, unknown city at night, the perfect depiction of fear. Shattered glass is everywhere, piles of debris and slabs of concrete are piled high on the road. Life truly loves to slip away here. Follow these shadows all night long. Solitary light posts lighting the way. Floating dust motes and corrupt light bulbs. Her hand is still warm. A kind of imperceptible bond ties them together as they walk through the valley of the shadow of death. And they fear so much evil.

A walk down a road as peaceful as death. Going on and on. Chocolate drips down Nickolai's chin. Tori wants to wipe it away with the edge of her knife. Taste it on her tongue and then lick more off his lips. But not yet. Holding his hand is fine for now. And maybe later they will tear each other apart again. Rip leather and chains right off their bodies. Fur of his jacket will be stained. Eyeliner will run down her face.

And they'll be alive. Here in this city where life slips away. Where violence is picked up from a candy store. Which one would you like? Assault? Rape? Murder?

They'll fight it.

With needles in their back pockets and fingers laced like shoes, they'll fight it all.

And they'll end the day in the same way. Tearing and ripping. Sucking on each other, lips around those lollipops, tasting each flavor. Old books and grime. Sour candy and chocolate.

A whole candy store right under their fingertips.


	77. Snap

**A/N: For **Butterfly Ichihara**. Hope you like it! So guys, I want to hit 200 reviews, let's make it happen :D. I need motivation this week because I want to finish all these requests before I leave for the UK!**

**So enjoy, request, and please review :). And if you request, try to think of an idea for a sick fic, cause I want to write some of those ^^. **

* * *

Theme#77: Snap

Pairing: CanadaxItaly

Song: I Can't Help Falling in Love With You by Elvis Presley

_Like a river flows surely to the sea_

_Darling so it goes_

_Some things are meant to be- Elvis Presley _

In the beginning, they are drops of water exploding from a spring. To be more exact, Feli is the one who explodes. Tumbling down bare rock that smells and tastes like a warm afternoon in the sun. Mattie trickles slowly, feeling every groove and channel. He's cautious. Feli is spastic.

But then he realizes where he is and he retreats back. Trying to evaporate into the sky. Mattie just laughs. Feli can be such a coward.

In the beginning, they are children. Thirteen-year-olds on the cusp of adolescence. Running across the blacktop after school. Basketballs lie warm and wet on the sidelines. It has been raining all day. Mattie pressed his face against the window during science class and watched the drops fall. Glasses clinked against the pane. A teacher slapped his wrist with a ruler.

Private school can be hard.

Harder than the rulers hitting the nun's palm.

Harder than that smile on Feli's face that is impossible to crack.

He's always smiling. Smiling until the nun turns on him. Then he's waving his little white flag that he fashioned in shop class, promising to behave. Mattie just rolls his eyes. Feli goes looking for trouble, hitting on the girls in class, calling himself the "tomato fairy" and always bothering the nuns.

Mattie is invisible to all of his classmates. But for some reason, the nuns can see him perfectly. Every audible sigh, every nodding head. He falls asleep in class and gets the ruler…again.

After school is better. Feli runs around the court with his arms out.

"Look at me! I'm a plane!"

All laughter and fake machine gun fire. Those little gasps peek through. Gasps that make Mattie's ears redden for no reason. Reasons unknown as Feli machine guns his feet.

The plane needs to land. Now. Because Mattie is feeling those things unknown and he's bouncing on the balls of his heels. Fingers on the backpack straps, tapping and tapping until they go numb.

"C-Come on, Feli. Let's wait for the bus."

Waiting for the bus takes longer than ever. They snap gum together. Against the chain-link fence, dressed in navy jackets and grey ties, they chew bubblegum and talk about nothing. School work, mean nuns, cute girls.

Except Mattie isn't interested. He keeps staring at Feli's curl.

And then he snaps his gum.

* * *

In the middle, they are drops of water floating side by side. Together, they join a river and start life. Feli is still naïve and immature. Mattie is still quiet and invisible. But they still have each other. Hydrogen and oxygen stick together. Confused water droplets, not knowing where to go, are beginning to understand. Sure, Feli may fall over miniature cliffs and Mattie may slip through the cracks, but they are on track.

On track for what is meant to be. Wise men say it is foolish to rush in, but they keep going. Mattie's pace is still slow. Looking up at the sun and hoping it doesn't wipe him away.

In the middle, they are teenagers. College students on the cusp of adulthood. Somehow, they ended up at the same university. Luck or something else?

Mattie doesn't know. He sits in the library, legs crossed as he studies for a psychic's exam. How funny, he's majoring in engineering. Feli is equally surprised.

Heavy books make his knees crack. Toes curl into themselves with a cotton tongue pressing down. Shoes tattered and torn. He feels the laces tied tightly, corseting his foot. Why does he do this to himself? Just to keep himself awake?

Oh, now he remembers. He never wants them to come untied, so he ties them extra tight. Because if they unravel, Feli will offer to retie them. And when he bends down, knees on the carpet, his shirt will ride up and the waistband of his boxers will show. And then Mattie's ears will turn red for no reason.

No…he knows the reason. He's known for quite a while now. Puberty taught him many things. Puberty also changed Feli. He no longer talks about mean nuns and cute girls.

Instead, talk turns to mean professors and cute Canadian.

One Canadian to be exact.

"Look, your glasses are crooked! Here, let me help you, Mattie."

Fingers touch black frames, ears turn red and Mattie hops away, letting a small "Maple!" escape his lips.

Mattie still doesn't understand that feeling. He knows what it is, but he doesn't get it. Feli seems to understand. He holds the key that Mattie will never come.

So why doesn't he take that key? Wrestle it out of those thin fingers and snap that waistband.

No…no.

Rubber bands are snappable, not waistbands. They snap rubber bands together when they study. It's a stress reliever, so Mattie says. In all honesty, it is Mattie's way of keeping his cool. He doesn't want his ears to catch fire. Tingling nerves, twitching lips, all of it manifesting as he flicks the rubber band. Over and over again.

Mattie wonders if it is a sin. But he's on track. He doesn't know it, but he is.

One day, they'll be snapping waistbands.

* * *

In the end, they are water droplets flowing into the ocean. It's been a long journey. Over rocks and rapids, swirling in whirlpools as bystanders laugh and throw sticks in. Many times, they have almost drowned. They pull each other up. Hands going from smooth to rough to wrinkled. Young fingers, young lips. Labored fingers, overworked lips. But not in the bad way.

Feli is still immature. But he is no longer naïve.

Mattie is still quiet. But he is no longer invisible.

People see him. People take Feli seriously. Age gives just as much as it takes away. But they are still the same. Mattie and Feli could be those children in the schoolyard. They could be those college kids in the library. Nights in the dorm room, days spent looking for jobs; all of it has led to this. Find a job, make some money, travel and grow and find your place. Find love, hold hands, wear fedoras that expose curls and hockey jerseys that are too big. Get bad haircuts and eat bad food, get sick and drink too much alcohol. Live and breathe, sigh and die. And then wake up next to the one you love and remember why your life is worth it. Take showers that are too hot, too cold, see eyes in the mirror and toes beneath the blanket. Be high and be low. Be everything and take a million pictures.

Look at those pictures as your approach the end.

Mattie and Feli sit on an unpainted porch. Rocking chairs creaking just like their bones. Fingers interlock in the warm afternoon sun.

It's a beautiful day.

It's been a beautiful life.

And it still isn't over.

"Look at that cloud, Mattie. It looks like a tomato. Remember the tomato fairy?"

"Of course. How could I forget?"

They laugh. Tired laughs that turn to sighs. Heads resting against each other, they smack their lips and fall asleep. This is nice. Being able to nap whenever they want and wake up to a warm afternoon. Talking as slow as they want, talking as fast. Being whatever they want.

They snap suspenders now. Matching pairs that get them compliments in public.

Sometimes the suspenders are red, then they're black with little stars on them. All different kinds.

Snapping them is fun. It passes the time. And they have so much time now. Even though people remind them that they are reaching the end, that they will both die.

So what?

Life has been good.

They have snapped everything and done everything they could.

And when they die, they'll die together. Because this was meant to be. Never a sin, never a rush, just a river that flows endlessly towards the sea. They couldn't help it. They were meant to stay, meant to be.

Together, they will leave this world. Together, they'll snap off the lights and head off to tomorrow.


	78. Contrast ( MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR!)

**A/N: These two are long overdue, sorry ^^". The 2P!Japanx2P!America one is for **awesome-reviewer **and the New ZealandxWales is for** Reader**. I used the same theme for these two, one with a darker theme, and the other with a pretty fluffy theme. So, enjoy :).**

**IMPORTANT UPDATE:**

**Ok, tomorrow, I leave for London (yay, going to see Arthur ^^ haha). I will be gone until the 12th, so I will not be able to update until I get back. Sorry, guys! So please, keep requesting and reviewing while I am away. I'll need motivation since I'll be going back to college soon. Farewell for now, my lovely readers :). And thanks for all of your support thus far. It really means a alot. See you guys in about two weeks. Have a safe and enjoyable two weeks **

* * *

Theme#78: Contrast

Pairing: 2P!Japanx2P!America

Song: Let Me Entertain You by Robbie Williams

_Life's too short for you to die  
So grab yourself an alibi  
Heaven knows your mother lied  
Mon cher- Robbie Williams _

Hell leaves Earth when Kuro turns on the shower. Flees with the clouds of steam that go rolling across the tile. Fog lays it on thick, and he's paralyzed. Toes crack in that asymmetrical way. All at different times, lines bending with his body. Black outlines run along his legs, his chest, his head. Encircling him like a halo.

Angels do not kill. They never dig their nails into flesh. Moaning with the gratification of a predator on its prey. Hollow bones full of marrow that slips down the throat. And they never deal death with cards caught between their teeth. Iron-tipped wings taste blood for the first time.

Good time.

First time.

Times that come again and again. Kuro loves those times. Because he is not an angel and killing is his drug. Little Bo Peep falls asleep in the bathtub, pills on his tongue. Kuro falls asleep standing up, red painted across his eyelids. He gets high so that he can taste the lows.

Taste blood.

What is Kuro?

Maybe he's a demon of the night. Mind burned by habits he's learned. Body scarred by anger he's earned. Composure stirred by rumors he's heard.

And maybe he is an angel. Wings crammed inside the shower as he washes the blood from his hair.

No time to psychoanalyze.

First times, good times.

Because the facts are simple. Kuro is a high school student by day, a murderer by night. Two different people, two different names. At school, he is Kiku. Standing on Death's door, he is Kuro. He goes to Death every night. Waiting on the shore of a black river, hands splayed in his pockets. And he asks for one thing and Death gives it to him willingly. His other half emerges from the other side. Dripping wet. Wet dew on the grass, the sweet, sweet grass that he lies on in the morning. Night rips the blades apart. Kuro the killer comes out and answers the questions.

What do I want?

Satisfaction.

What gives me satisfaction?

Blood.

But tonight is different. He leans against the steamy glass and watches Hell slip away. Burning on his effigy, everything he knows crumbles into dust. Tonight, Kuro decided to target the American transfer student. That guy named Alfred with the glasses and loud mouth. That guy that always tries to hug him, making Kiku slip away.

Yeah, tonight he was supposed to die.

Kuro planned on being respectful. After all, respect is all he has. Killing Alfred in one clean slice, knife straight to the jugular. Instead of slow torture, he was going to be kind. No bound hands tied to a chair. Fingers curling and turning purple as the rope rubs skin raw. No ribbons or muscles bundled beneath his palms. The red splattered across Kuro's face would have felt so good, but he decided not to.

He decided to be kind.

And then he caught Alfred alone in a dark apartment, and everything changed.

"I'm not afraid of you, Kiku."

"It's Kuro."

"Whatever. But like I said, I'm not scared. There's nothing left for me to fear. Because I'm just like you, Kiku, Kuro…whatever the hell your name is. Having a split personality is fun, isn't it?"

"I don't understand, Alfred."

"It's Allan."

This conversation played out like a silent film. Words written along the bottom of the screen.

Was it even real? Kuro thinks about that as he wraps a towel around his waist.

How did this even happen? Kuro questions his identity as he walks into the bedroom.

Is this even happening? Kuro tries to find reality as he lets the towel fall.

Because he never expected this. To find another with his disorder, a potential piece of prey turned equal. Someone who loves blood just as much as him. Whether it flows from himself or a screaming body. Tastes better from your own veins. All rich and scarlet as it touches white teeth. Scarring yourself brings satisfaction. Nails on a bat, knives on a corkboard. Dug deep into the face of your next target. Someone who understands the need and knows how it feels to listen.

Listen to words inside your head that demand fresh blood. And you answer because you have to. Kuro knows this. So does Allan. Finally, they have found each other.

So why did this happen? Kuro tries to piece it together as he rolls onto the bed. He is already trembling. He's tired of everything, school, teachers, his parents back home that never listen and never understand. It's all such a drag.

But this might help. Allan, with his glasses and his eyes that gleam scarlet, all of him red and ready for anything. Right and wrong separate like blood in a vial. The contrast too hard to see. Breath caught in elastic lungs that struggle in this heated air. Steam settling around the bed.

Heat from Allan's face as he hovers over him. Fingernails on pale skin that waits in anxious silence.

And then there's an upside down smile and glasses that slip down a nose.

"You ready, Kuro?"

"I…I think so."

The smile broadens. "Good. Then let me entertain you."

* * *

Pairing: New ZealandxWales

Song: Glad You Came by The Wanted

_The sun goes down_

_The stars come out_

_And all that counts_

_Is here and now - The Wanted_

Things to do as a fun-loving, sheep-loving couple:

1. Pick out matching wool sweaters.

2. Have a picnic in a meadow.

3. Pet sheep and talk about things like hair curls and fairies and good books and cheap alcohol.

4. Get drunk in one person's flat, then do it again in the other's.

5. Take a shower and use that really nice soap that smells like freshly cut grass.

6. Go on a hike and fall asleep under the stars.

Toby and Dylan have done most of these things. They are so glad they came together. Because now they can do each and every one.

Number one has been done a few times. Going to the store early in the afternoon, fingers laced loosely together as they walk down the street. Dylan's dark green eyes half shut in the sunlight. Toby's lighter ones watching the birds on the telephone wire. It's fall and clouds turn ashy grey in the sky. Brushstrokes across a scratched canvas that bleeds colors along the horizon. Red flames, orangish light that matches Toby's scarf. All knotted thread hanging against his chest.

Between strands of brown hair, he smiles. Knobs on his cheeks flushed pink. And Dylan smiles when he sees those dimples. Pinholes in that paper face. He's a perfect drawing. Some artist made him up in the middle of the night. Thick lines, thin lines, all varying degrees of color on the page. And he was washed in it, crumpled between two pieces of white and pulled out into the light. A lamp on the desk, spilling across the face of the artist. Drops of sweat on the paper, dripping down the cheeks and onto fake arms. Trying to will it real.

And now he is real. And he's standing next to Dylan, head against his shoulder.

They buy matching wool sweaters from a shop on the corner. Potted plants hang from the awning. Droplets of water falling into puddles at their feet. Both of them in rain boots. Rubber touching rubber, wool touching wool.

There's number one.

Number two occurs whenever they visit New Zealand. Rolling hills meeting a blue sky. They lie in the grass, eating strawberries and watching herds of sheep go floating by like clouds. It's summer and the sun is an unblinking eye in the sky. A single drop of watercolor yellow on a stiff blue page. Green grass that tickles lips and cheeks. Red watermelon that sticks to pink tongues. Dylan wants to be part of a painting, maybe one full of magical creatures. Because New Zealand reminds him of magic. The backdrop for The Lord of the Rings, the place that always makes him think of Toby.

They roll across a checkered blanket.

Laughing, playing, nipping the seeds off each other's faces.

That's number two.

Number three occurs every so often. They visit the local petting zoo.

Their conversations go something like this:

"Your curl looks nice today. Nice and spiral-shaped."

"Thanks, Dylan."

Petting the sheep, some laughing, some muttering, some blushing as Dylan pushes back the curl.

"So tell me one of your legends again. You know, the ones with the fairies. I like those."

"Another time, Toby. And watch out, he's biting your sleeve."

"Oh, silly sheep!"

Another few minutes. Dropping a few bits of food on the ground.

"What were you reading last night, Dylan?"

"One of those Narnia books. Not bad. We should go inside a wardrobe together, sometime. Have a little adventure."

Toby laughs, blushing harder than ever. And then they talk about drinking later and decide that they'll do it.

So they do number four.

Fits of laughter fall into fits of crying and then back again. Saying "I love you" comes carelessly. Curls wrapped around fingers wrapped around hands wrapped around thighs and ankles. It's a wild night. The next night is the same.

Number five happens every other weekend. The soap is soft, bubbles are kisses along new skin. And they are motionless. Watching the bubbles form.

Tonight, they are finally completing number six. They walk up the side of a hill. What will it be like? Falling asleep under the stars, side by side, hands laced together?

Tonight, they'll find out. And finally be able to check number six off their list.

All of the things a fun-loving, sheep-loving couple should do.


	79. Childhood

**A/N: For **Kalina**. Jamie is the name used for Canada, and Gilen is Prussia, just so you all know.**

**So, yesterday, I got back from the UK. That's why I haven't updated in forever ^^". I won't ramble about it here, but if you really, really want to hear about my trip, just PM me and I can tell you all about England and Scotland :). And if you guys ever get the chance (unless you live there already lol) you should definitely go to the UK. It is an amazing place. My next few drabbles will be trip related, so look forward to that.**

**Please review! I need motivation since I go back to college tomorrow! Enjoy and leave a request :). **

* * *

Theme#79: Childhood

Pairing: 2P!Canadax2P!Prussia

Song: Bitemarks and Bruises by Good with Grenades

When we were kids, I found myself in the dark corner. The place where bad children were sent to think about what they've done. Except I wasn't put there by some teacher, I put myself there. Cold room made of dingy carpet and peeling walls, cold body made of white flesh and bone. A black heart, some black eyes, all of these things coming together to make me. I used to hide in the corner because the feelings were too much. Some invisible teacher pushed me into it with forceful hands. Clawing nails against my spine felt like needles. And then I realized that they were my own nails. All of it was me. Guilt propelled me into that corner. Whenever I felt the want, I went there. At the age of fourteen, I was feeling it more than ever.

When we were kids, we were two single hearts on fire. Age eight, we were friends. Hugging beneath the white hot sun because we had just gotten out of the pool and it was cold. You know, that misplaced chill that latched onto your skin when you first emerge. Dancing nerves all spread across your marrow. We shivered and then dove back in. holding on to each other, connected. Your name was Jamie and mine was Gilen. Those are still are names. But they were different then. Jamie meant focused, Gilen meant naughty. You were focused on the plants and trees. Dirt was warm beneath your cheek. I was busy crushing ants and laughing at the sky.

Seemingly harmless.

And then we started to grow. Going out on the wire. Self-esteem became my enemy. Slowly, it dripped out of me. Like a cracked hourglass struggling to breathe. But hourglasses don't breathe, not the way you and I do. Their lungs are made of see through stuff. Similar to my arms and legs. I started to feel so transparent. Could you see the real me? Who was the real me? We aged and weird thoughts turned inside me. Killing ants turned to killing birds turned to killing cats. And you hated me for that. One day, you punched me. I kicked a dog and left it for dead. Bitemarks on my arms. Bruises on its head. Black, purple, deep blue that bled over flesh. You were so mad at me. We were still kids then. My cheek was swollen for a week.

Other things started to swell, too. We kept aging. Popsicles on an August afternoon were thick and wet. You learned that thick could refer to other things. I discovered this when I looked down at myself for the first time. Then I decided to show you. You bit your lip. Maybe in fear, in surprise. I never asked. But it was all my doing. I wanted to show you.

School was never the same. I kept thinking about popsicles and feeling it in my shorts. Listening to the teacher was hard. No focused moments were made. Self-esteem sunk even lower. Ships descended into my stomach. As I became more and more silent, you became more and stern. Wearing dark sunglasses to class while I slept with my lengthening hair on the desk. But I wasn't really sleeping. I was feeling the ships inside me. They hurt. Sails caught fire. The wooden masts knocked against my ribcage. What made the ships sink in the first place?

You did.

Because you weren't a kid anymore. Hair tied into a low ponytail, chewing on a toothpick in the middle of the lunchroom. So I let my hair grown, too.

And when I saw you, the ships sank even lower. Sank into my pelvic bones. It burned so bad. Bruises on my inner thighs, bitemarks on my knuckles as I bit down hard. Lying on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, violet eyes roved the ceiling. My fingers entangled in the carpet. Boxer shorts were red and white. I bought them because they reminded me of you. They slipped off with ease. I used to wriggle out of them with my back on the bathroom tile. Elastic bands left marks on my waist. My fingers moved along ridges and valleys. Ridges scarred by razors and burned by lighters. Valleys all aflame. It was all on fire.

I used to sweat beneath the fluorescent lights. My mom would knock on the door.

"Gil? Gil, you all right?"

"Uh…yeah. I-I'll be out soon."

But I was never out soon. Mom suspected that I was watching porno. I wasn't. Her words inspired me, though. Every day after school, I retreated into my bathroom. Laptop on the floor with boxer shorts bunched around them. I held them against my face. Red and white felt warm and cold. I watched everything. And it all reminded me of you. Dark sunglasses haunted me every day.

Fire grew more intense as self-esteem grew into nothing. That flame shrank while another took over. This flame was scarlet. Living between my lungs. I rolled over the carpet, moaning and clutching my pelvis. The desire to rip it out was unbearable. So many bruises. So many bitemarks along my knuckles. I gave myself bruises. I pushed myself into that dark corner. You pushed me there.

Your beauty made me want to die.

Hair growing longer each year. Eyes burning behind sunglasses as you leaned against your locker. Clothes ripped, your artlessness showing through your shredded knees. Bruises on your legs. Bitemarks on your lip. And you made so many ships sink. They got all tangled up in my pelvis. Sometimes, they hurt. Hurt like hell. In the middle of the night, I woke up, groaning. It was all I could do to roll over onto my stomach and dry hump the sheets. Pretending that you were beneath me, nothing but soft flesh and thick golden hair that tickled the inside of my mouth. I was silently suffering. Growing older took its toll. It was stronger with me for some reason, these feelings. The need to kill cats was replaced by the need to dream about you.

I realized that passion lies in screams. Ecstatic dreams made my toes curls. I…I loved you so much. My bruises proved it. They were indirectly inflicted by you. By your hockey stick and your scratched glasses. By your teeth, which I longed to feel against my lips.

Childhood was hell.

Everything was constantly burning.

You were my Lucifer.

I was the angel descending into the flames.

You gave me bruises along my inner thighs. You gave me bitemarks on my knuckles. You gave me pain and twisting knots that could only be untied by mauling the sheets. You gave me dreams, so many damning dreams that made me moan in my sleep. You gave me feelings that made the magic rise. Dark magic surging through my veins.

And you still give me screams. And you still give me bruises and bitemarks. Except now you give them to me directly. Two single hearts on fire. We move along the wire, screaming and biting our lips in fear. Now we are no longer kids. Now we are grownups. I am a male hooker, though you never call me that. You never call me anything. Silence is our thing, now.

Things changed after school. We lost touch for a while. Then we met again, one night on a street corner, and fate kept us together. But are we even together?

My self-esteem is at an all-time low.

Your silence makes me nervous. But I never say anything. Let's just make tonight worth our while. Instead of killing cats, we can kill the night. I bring the pills and the wild ideas. We'll roll off the bed and give each other more bruises. You bring chains, the belts wrapped around your waist. Your wallet is connected to it. Make a grab for the money, feel the dollars in between my fingers. We give each other pain and scream each other's names. But the screams are muted, more like whispers in the ears.

"Jamie."

"…Gil."

Childhood is long gone. We are no longer kids. My bruises and bitemarks will always remind me of that time. Of hell and the time I spent there, the time I am still spending there.

The glimmer in my eyes may or may not be a lie. I tell you I'm not like other men, but you never respond. You just look blankly up at me, a half smile on your face. And then you shrug and give me more bruises. My pelvis aches every night. I treasure that. Secretly, of course,

Sometimes, I long for childhood. Hell was simpler. All of these grownups problems didn't exist. So whenever I see you and feel you atop me, I close my eyes and think about those days. You and your dark sunglasses, me and my vanishing self-esteem.

Help me get it back, please?


	80. Online

**A/N: For **CakesClover**. Sorry this is so late ^^". Hope you like it! They really are a precious couple, good request. So I am all moved in and classes do not start until Monday, so I'll have extra time to write and finish all of your requests. Request, request! Any pairing, any theme, song, plot, whatever. Seriously guys, give me your craziest, saddest, flulffiest, scariest, most epic requests. I am in a writing mood this weekend!**

**Enjoy, request, and please review :). And thanks to all of you who welcomed me back and wished me good luck in college, it is much appreciated ^^. P.S, the slanted words in this drabble are Lili, and the normal ones are Raivis.**

**Until next update...**

* * *

Theme#80: Online

Pairing: LatviaxLichtenstein 

So much time is spent on things. On top floors, watching the clouds drift across the glass buildings. On high roofs, wondering whether or not to jump. On soles, rubber, canvas, and leather. On plastic horses that spin around. On sidewalks and boardwalks and the edges of beaches. They feel warm in between bare toes. On people. So soft. So hard. Being on top of a person is like being on top of the world. You shove them out of the busy street and fall atop them. You sit on their chest, trying to bring them back to life. One night, you roll onto a person that you love very much. Another night, you try desperately to get off them. On and off. No one can stay on top of things forever.

But Raivas can. He spends all of his time online. Out on the thin wire. It hangs over the city. All black thread that ties strangers together. In Raivas' mind, when you go online, you fall into a web. Invisible spiders make lines. Straight lines, crooked lines, lines that wrap around your ankles and never let go.

Looking through the screen, you see them there.

Millions of eyes tied up. Single-minded goldfish swimming through an empty ocean. Everyone looks at everything. And they eat what they are given. Sometimes too much, becoming round orange pennies in the water.

Raivas does the opposite. He expels it all. His crybaby self comes out whenever he is online. Tears drip down his face. But when he talks to Lili, the tears are happy. She's a girl on the other end of the thread. Their strings are connected, or at least he thinks they are.

Tonight, they are talking romance novels and cups of hot chocolate. They each have one on their desk. A book, a cup.

The words are typed across the screen:

You go first, Lili ;).

_You sure?_

Of course. I'm sure you picked a great one.

_^^" You're making me blush, Raivas! But ok, here it goes. I have Whitney, My Love._

Woah, that's intense.

_…_

But not in a bad way! I love that book. It's just very…passionate.

_I know ;D._

Someone's sassy tonight.

_Haha, I try. So it's your turn now._

I have Wuthering Heights positioned on the edge of my desk. It's teetering, it's teetering…damnit, it fell.

_Why'd you let it fall?_

It's just that kind of book, you know? Kinda deserves to fall. Not that it's bad or anything…but it needs to hit rock bottom.

_…Huh?_

Argh! It's difficult to explain.

_xD You're ridiculous. But that is a great choice. Such a sad novel. And a very dissatisfying ending. My big brother loves that book…figures haha._

He is the melancholy type.

_So are you, Raivas._

Hmm…very true. I prefer that label over "crybaby". That's what my brother calls me.

_Well he's a buttface._

Very eloquent.

_I know. So, let's play a game._

This isn't like Saw is it?

_No, you big dummy ;D. Just a normal game. We have to take turns coming up with literary pickup lines._

Ok…I feel like I'm going to regret this.

_Just play the game._

Fine, I'll go first. I like paper and you like Kindle. So let's get together, baby, and start a fire.

_…HAHAHAHA. That is so stupid, but I love it. My turn. You're so hunky, you must be hiding a rapidly aging portrait somewhere in your attic._

I know why the caged bird sings— because I'm that good, that's why.

_You know Bookslut? They named it after me._

…Ok, that one is a little ridiculous.

_And yours wasn't?_

Mine was very clever, actually. Two more, let's go.

_All right…uhhh…You are the green light at the end of Daisy's dock._

Aww, I love that one. So sentimental. Now I feel pressured to come up with a sappy one. Here we go…You're like a dictionary. You add meaning to my life.

_Love it. A perfect ending to our game._

I agree. Now, let's turn on the sound and read our books.

_Good idea._

They do this every night. A new book, a new cup of something warm. Tonight, it is steaming hot chocolate. Marshmallows and whipped cream swirls slowly. Last night, it was green tea. Lili burned her tongue and Raivis comforted her through the microphone. Her gasps of pain really turned him on. Like when he turns the booklight on next to his bed. Their literary love is way too intense. Never seen the other's face, never touched or held hands or kissed behind a book shelf. But they have been together forever. Her selfies are plastered all over his fridge. His awkward photos with his awkward smile are spread all over her desk.

They read in silence. Flick the sound on, lean back in the rolling chair, the leather chair, and read. Sounds drift across the thread. Raivis clears his throat. Lili cracks her toes and put them on her desk. Ruffling material, cotton on wood. Someone takes a sip of hot chocolate. They laugh and go back to reading. Turning of pages, dove wings and white butterfly wings and white gloves that you wear for afternoon tea. Thunder outside turns to wind on the moors. Rain turns to tears. It's a dive. Descending straight into the depths of another world.

They meet in the middle. Black threads tangling their hands. Then Lili gasps. She gasps again, again. Raivas stares at the screen. Maybe he's hoping that she will climb out of the monitor, gasping and crying. Then she'll throw herself into his lap.

Her gasps mix with turning pages. Frantic and too fast for reality. Is she ok?

He whispers, "Lili?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry. There was this really emotional part and I couldn't contain myself. Sorry…"

"No, don't apologize. It's fine…uh, kinda nice actually. Hahaha…" His awkward laugh, like his smile, fades.

Now she laughs. "You're such a perv."

"I am not! Here, I'll gasp into the microphone and see what you do."

"Go right ahead, Casanova."

"I will!" He flips through Wuthering Heights and finds the part where Heathcliff is speaking to Catherine's ghost. This is an emotional part. They're forced gasps at first. Kind of choking and unnatural sounding. Lili is laughing. So he finds another part. A description of the moors. Wow…this paragraph is practically orgasmic. Raivas is panting into the screen, picturing the wind and the moors and the woman who stands atop the grass. Her lover waits on another hill. Maybe Raivas has stopped reading and now he's just picturing him and Lili lying in the grass, watching the clouds roll by. Maybe he is leaning against the screen, trying to hold back tears because his crybaby self is coming out.

Lili has stopped laughing. She just keeps turning pages. Then she stops.

"Wow…"

"I told you."

"No, I said 'wow' because I turned another page and found a dead spider stuck to it. Seriously, wow."

Raivas blushes and falls back into his chair. "You are so mean to me. I-I really was trying."

"No, no it was fine. Perfectly fine." Her voice is all clipped. "So…let's play another game."

Raivas is too embarrassed to talk. So he types it out:

Fine.

On the other end. Lili is curled up in her leather chair. Her cheeks are red, her ears are red, her neck feels like it's on fire. Raivas sounded…godly. Seriously, it was amazing. Books make him so excited. That is so…hot. Lili tries to stop herself from squealing. It turns into a forced cough.

She types back:

_Fine._

And they play another game On both ends, they are smiling. Embarrassed, but happy. Black threads are pulled tighter and they fall into the conversation.

Fall on top of each other as they fall on line.


	81. Ribs

**A/N: For **Kalina**. I will be doing a 2P! Spamano for your song request, as well, I just wanted to post this one first. I did a strange thing, I wrote a 1P! drabble that is very dark and sinister. My 2P! Spamano will be a little more fluffy (as fluffy as 2P's! can get haha). Just wanted to shake things up xD lol.** **So, about this drabble. I recently finished watching Cry play Rule of Rose, and orphans and childhood angst were on my brain. So, I hope you guys enjoy this little piece.**

**I need some fluffy ideas for future drabbles. Angst is just too fun to write ^^". So request, request! And please review :). Enjoy...**

* * *

Theme#81: Ribs

Pairing: SpainxRomano

Song: Sorry by Sleeping With Sirens

_I see you around here lately,  
You smile brighter than you should.  
And me I've been so lonely,  
I'm glad you're doing good.- Sleeping With Sirens_

I'm sitting in the cell with damp floors and damp walls, everything wet, oozing with weird smells that I don't want to think about. Dried blood that's been melted and then frozen again. Baking in between bricks. Dust piles in the corner, making my lungs itch. I scratch at my chest. Nails dig deep into pale skin that hasn't seen the sun in weeks. It's hot and the scratching makes me cooler. Icy fingers of pain touch my marrow. With each rake, I get closer and closer to my lungs. My heart that beats between them.

Like blood between bricks. These bricks are on fire. I've broken so many ribs ramming myself against the wall. I want to leave this damn place. Time is swept up in dust pans and thrown out the door. With each breath, I die a little more. Damn it all. Damn these bars and their taunts. Toothpick arms reach through and can almost touch the set of keys. But I'm never close enough. Mucus crusted around my nose turns to blood as the effort makes me sick. Damn this floor, full of cracks that lead to nowhere. Damn the rats that bite me in my sleep. Damn the yellow cup that makes me vomit all night light. And damn them, the ignorant assholes that put me here.

The orphanage is run by no one. Just a phantom woman with long nails and shifty eyes. She oversees us all. When one of us has been bad, she calls us into her office. It's a small room with a stained carpet on the floor. Feels like bear skin beneath my feet. I've only been there once. I punched Feli after he took my package of crackers. Phantom woman scolded me and dragged me into her room. She did weird things to me there. I left walking on tiptoe, my body throbbing.

I hate her.

So does everyone else.

But she is never around. Phantom woman makes announcements and punishes naughty boys. Then she slips away into her hidey hole. It is the orphans that run this place. We all come together and choose who the best is. Then we choose who the worst is and we pick on them until they cry. Our King sits on a throne of broken toys. He is the oldest, according to everyone. It's funny, because we are the age, the King and I, but everyone calls him the oldest. Both of us are old for orphans. But who cares about me? They only care for the King. His name is Antonio and he's always happy.

Too happy. He smiles too brightly. But I can't hate him.

I just can't.

Because we love each other. And our secret letters are special. Ever since I was voted the worst and put into the lonely cell, he has been nicer to me. He is still King, but now he is sneaky. Slipping pieces of paper into the holes above my head. Second floor, last bedroom on the end. That is where he lives, directly above my tiny cell. Digging the hole was easy. Rusty spoons and fingernails made their way to me. I was so happy when the paint chipped off and hit my forehead. Then he appeared. His smile was too bright, his paper crown too large. But I was just happy to see him. Because it's lonely down here.

At least he is doing good.

He talks to me through the hole. "I'm sorry, Lovi…I really am sorry. They outvoted me."

"But you're the King."

He shrugs. "Kings don't have any real power, didn't you know that?"

"No…"

"Now you do. Hold on, I'm coming down."

The rope falls to the floor. It's tied around his bedpost, all frayed and begging to be tied into a noose. I want a noose. Really, really bad. Damn my lack of skills. I can't tie knots.

Dust rises when he falls. Bare feet swathed in white. Antonio never wears shoes. Just like me. I'm overcome by a sharp pain in my side. Splintered ribs tend to hurt. Really, really bad. Antonio catches me when I fall. More dust rises, settling back down as we sink to the floor.

"Lovi, are you all right?"

"What do you think, dumbass?"

Antonio's eyes widen. He covers my mouth with his hand. "Shh, shh, don't talk like that. She'll hear you and then she'll punish you for talking dirty."

I wrench my face away, growling. "Who the hell cares? I hope she hears me. Dumbass, dumbass, dumbass, dumba—"

He covers my mouth with his own.

Damn him, damn him.

I try not to bite his lip too hard. Just enough for him to squeal and back away. "Ow…Lovi, that was kinda mean. I thought you loved me…"

"J-Just stop…" My cheeks are red. Like my ribs and my chest. It is the color I feel whenever the phantom woman approaches. It is the color I see whenever my body is throbbing. It is the color I taste whenever I drink from the yellow cup. It is me, and I am it.

It rolls across my tongue as Antonio backs away. Hot, like a tea kettle pressed against my lips. He oozes in, dried blood in between the bricks. He's against the wall, but I still feel him. Just leave, Antonio. Leave and never come back. Then again, don't leave forever. Your smile may be too bright and I may hate you for that, but I am happy that you are good. When you come around here, you take my loneliness away. If only for a second. A sweet second that tastes like sweat. Your mouth covering mine in the darkness of my lonely room.

When you whisper, "I'm sorry," I try to forgive you. I really do. Can't we just go back to how things used to be?

Throw all of these things out the window. Let's toss them down the garbage shoot. Mean orphans and phantom ladies with nails that leave red marks. The red lines on my legs never go away. So why can't you fix them, my King? Aren't you supposed to hold all the power?

No?

Fine.

Then just shut the hell up.

Shut me up with your mouth.

I was put down here because I am the worst. You whisper, "sorry," and I know that you really are. We'll be better boys. No punishment or bad words. Nothing.

I've been silent for a long time. Crouched in the corner of my lonely cell, I am crying. They are quiet tears that make my cheeks red. Antonio is still here. I can see him through the slits in my bangs. His paper crown sags down his left ear.

"I'm sorry, Lovi. I'm sorry they do this to you. 'Cause I do it, too. I'm really sorry…"

"It's ok."

And then he's hugging me. Feel the paper crown against my head. Scissored paper that leaves cuts on my scalp. We are all scissored. Cut from the same pile of yellowed leaflets that scatter when the window is open. Our bare feet sink into the dust.

Secretly, I am praying that he won't let go.

I love you, Antonio. I love you and all of your apologies. But I'll never tell you. So keep apologizing.


	82. Ice Cubes

**A/N: For **HetaliaFanAmerica**. It's official, I need help (xD). This pairing was way too much fun to write. I know, it's ridiculous and silly, but it's meant to be...so, yeah. Hope you all enjoy this after all of that angst I wrote. This pairing is too perfect, seriously it is amazing. Maybe I'll write more?**

**Anyways, enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#82: Ice Cubes

Pairing: IcelandxFridge

Emil loves his fridge. Seriously, they are more than best friends. At least, they are in his mind. His white box mind that stores many cold things. Kind of like his fridge. Except his cold things are imaginary. He stacks them on imaginary shelves and catalogues them carefully. No one can see past his door. It is shut tight, keeping the cold in.

Fridge will never know his true feelings.

Fridge will forever be connected to the wall, silent and impassive. Kind of like him. Except he can talk and breathe. His fridge is motionless. Out of choice, out of necessity, Emil will never know. He likes to think that Fridge just chooses not to move. Wouldn't want to alarm the bystanders. So Emil strokes the white door and nods, understanding the unfortunate predicament.

"Shh, it's ok, Fridge. I know you can walk. You know you can walk. Just don't move while my friends are over."

Friends, what friends? Emil is cold and unfeeling. So many "uns" and negative feelings. He has no friends. He has Fridge.

Today, he will begin his courtship. Deep down, he is a romantic. The bow tied loosely around his neck was done purposefully. It makes him look ruffled and attractive. Like he's a "who cares" kind of guy. But he's not.

He cares too much, in fact. Thoughts veer off towards Fridge whenever he has the chance. Wonder what Fridge is doing now?

Let's write about it. Poems and songs and epic tales of a boy and his fridge. Each story a frozen ice cube in the tray.

First cube: perfectly squared, clear and glassy.

This is a strict relationship. Fridge waits in the break room. Emil works behind the wooden desk. He answers phones, which he hates doing, and talks in a bored voice.

His boss punches out words, then he punches out letters on a keyboard. Rhythmic strokes that drive Emil up the wall.

Work and answer and talk and sigh and work and stretch and cower and sigh and pray and nap and cower and sigh and slink into the room and cry. Fridge is always waiting for him.

"Hello, Fridge, how are you?"

Cold silence. It's always like that. But Emil doesn't mind. Silence is sexy. Especially when it flows out from under a crack, bathing the tile floor with iciness. Then it finds him and slips under his pant leg, trailing up his bare leg. Closer and closer. Goosebumps forming along his thighs as cold fingers burn him and make the breath catch in his throat. Clouds of breath stuck in his chest, turning his brain to fog and all reason to smoke. Fridge's arm is extra-long. It grabs hold of Emil and he almost leaps out of his chair. Good thing there is no one in the break room…

And now, the intimate moment between man and Fridge. Encounters of the fourth kind.

Oh, Fridge.

Oh, Fridge.

You with your cold hand, extra-long and extra strong. You've been working out, haven't you? I can tell by the way you move. And the way your invisible fingers pull me forward. You are so beautiful. Really. A fine appliance with pure white doors. Bur you aren't pure, are you? Wink, wink.

This is a strict relationship, so the moment can only last a few minutes. Emil slips out of the break room, cup of coffee in hand. He tries not to walk funny, but he can't help it. Fridge has definitely been working out. But he has to look professional, so he straightens his tie, clears his throat, and goes back to his desk. Everything perfectly square like before. The tingling cold lasts until lunchtime.

Second cube: jagged and rough, not quite formed.

This is a messy relationship. Fridge waits offstage. Emil screams into a microphone until his voice is raw, then he retreats into his dressing room. Fridge is patiently waiting. All cold and exposed, leaning against the wall. The door is cracked open.

Emil likes a tease.

He is in a band. Some screamo band that sings about death and fire and ice and unicorns with blood on their horns. How poetic. So when he comes off the stage, dripping with sweat, he cannot wait. The need to climb inside is too great.

"Hope you haven't been waiting for too long."

Stuttered silence.

Emil hears the sharp crackle in the icemaker. Smiling as wide as he can, which isn't wide at all, he walks up to Fridge, chains rattling with each step. He slips a hand up the water dispenser and presses down hard. Hot skin now soaking wet.

The open door is too tempting. So he puts on a little show. Pull the tank top over his head, white hair getting caught in the tears and holes. Tattoos are black and swirly, kind of like the wind and rain. Spiraling down, down, down. Sharp lines cut across his body. Some make abs that ripple when he moves. Others make scars that he obtained in some badass way.

"You know what, Fridge? I was mauled by a puffin once. It cut me with its sharp claws." He presses himself against the door. Finger the magnets that adorn Fridge's face. Some of them are so naughty. One of them resembles Emil's tattoo. Groaning, he wraps one leg around the open door and begins.

A heated moment between man and Fridge. The friction could start a fire.

Feel my scars. Feel them, Fridge. Your skin is so smooth and perfect. Mine is rough, unredeemable. You…you are an angel. Cold and white, you are so silent. But I know your true feelings.

Panting, Emil takes off the rest of his clothes. His skinny jeans are a little too tight, so he leans against Fridge and yanks them off one leg at a time. Fridge enjoys that moment. Because Emil is half naked and his bare body slams against the door as he struggles. A struggling Emil is so hot.

Once they're off, he climbs inside, shutting the door behind him. A few seconds of silence, then Fridge starts rocking back and forth and Emil 's vocal chords are getting a work out. No need to be embarrassed. If anyone hears, they'll just think he's practicing for the next concert…

So, those are two cubes in the tray of him and Fridge. It is a big tray. A long one, too. Full of stories and poems and ballads that they whisper to each other in the night. Memories frozen in time. Emil's fantasies come to life.

He will write to Fridge, tonight. Every night, from now until forever.

Will the other cubes ever be revealed? Who knows…

Haiku for Fridge, written by Emil:

Frozen heart in time

Forever solid, like me

We are one, my Fridge…


	83. Alphabet

**A/N: For **Estella Tweak**. Hope you like it! Geez, this was hard to write haha xD. Sorry it's shorter than usual, it was just hard to write alphabetically. It was fun, though.**

**Not much else to say other than enjoy, request, and please review! :)**

* * *

Theme#83: Alphabet

Pairing: 1P!Japanx2P!Japan

Anastasia, one of his most favorite princesses. Beating hearts and a great love story all wrapped up with a silk bow. Creating her world is easy. Dancing with Kuro is easy. Every Friday afternoon, they have a tea party. Finding random decorations and turning curtains into dresses. Gorgeous fabric draped across their bodies. Hot tea sits on the table, hands folded across fine china and finger sandwiches. Inch over wood, meeting in the middle. Just like looking in a mirror. Kiku and Kuro, black hair, pale face, different colored eyes that are flat as paper. Love is sweet and sour. Mondays are spent snuggling in bed, planting kisses on nervous cheeks. Nowhere else, no one else. Only on Fridays do they ever drink tea. Pink petals scattered all over the floor, tiptoeing and twirling in pretend dresses. Quiet, statues in a garden. Relaxing music slips out of the radio. Steam rising from the bathtub. Tea time is interrupted by bathtime, washing each other's hair with peach scented shampoo. Under a cotton fort, they play checkers. Venomous snake books stacked up beside them, tales and legends of old Japan. Wet raindrops blow into the open window. Xerocopies are stained as the storm rolls in. Young bamboo shoots are drenched. Zebra striped pillows accept two things.

A lap and a head to lie in that lap. Both look at each other, cheeks flushed. Coughing, Kiku is catching a cold. Dripping rain makes him shiver. Each sniff makes Kuro roll his eyes. Friends shouldn't get sick…but then again, they are more than friends. Good soup should make Kiku better. Helping him up, letting it all fall down Kiku's throat. Inside, Kuro is uncomfortable and he doesn't understand. Just how important is touch, contact, love? Kites are kept up by the air, but do the two ever really touch? Love…guess it is important. Maybe that's why he takes care of Kuro on sick days and makes him Oolong tea. Not able to move one day, tired and feverish. Omens are dire, so Kuro transfers the tea in one way, mouth to mouth. Pink cheeks beneath natural light. Quail cooking on the stove, a special surprise for tonight. Rest, Kiku, feel better in the morning. Stay still at Kuro tries to kiss you, because it doesn't feel natural, like the light, and his body won't move. Take deep breaths. Unkempt hair ruffled by the wind outside the window. Very silent, cups of tea sitting on the table. When you feel better, Kiku, you can wear the bow that Kuro sowed out of animal skin and you can play hangman and take turns trying to get the other to smile. Xylology makes you examine the wooden table with wide eyes. Yesterday is overflowing with magic and princesses. Zipper up the jacket, keeping the warmth in.

As Kiku mutters and moves, Kuro slips the jacket around his arms. Brace yourself for intense cuddling. Cracked lips whispering into black hair. Dead moths fall upon the windowsill. Even now, with the rain pouring and the lightning flashing, the world is silent. Fairytales can come true. Genesis, beginning of a new story. How Kuro awakens the sleeping princess. Instead, he pulls Kiku against him and tries not to think about death. Juicy peaches ripen on the table and Kiku asks for one. Kuro's there, cutting it up with a plastic knife because real ones are not allowed. Letting the juices flow, he puts a piece on Kiku's tongue. More muttering. Nothing makes him happier, he smiles. Open eyes are a little more alive than paper. Pastel paper from Kuro's journal, all folded up with nowhere to go. Quite the stormy afternoon, full of abandoned tea parties, the smell of peaches filling the room. Ready for a cozy night of snuggling by the fire? Stiff, Kuro will try to comply. Undulating waves on the seashore, kind of like them. Vexing movements that are also endearing, a flick of the hair, a lick of the lips. Water feels good against burning skin. Xylophone notes seep through the stereo. Yellow lemons are cut and mixed with peaches, sweet and sour. Zodiacs say that Kuro and Kiku should never be together, but they are.

A beautiful concoction dripping, edging forward, getting high in June, kites looming, making noises overhead, penetrating quiet retreats, spaces that undergo various wakenings, xerocopying your…

Alphabetical memories.


	84. Something

**A/N: For **Demoness99**. Hope you like it! Sorry I've been kinda slow with updates, guys. I just finished my first week of school I've had homework, three hour classes at 6 at night, etc (lol). So I've really been trying to write all of these requests! I'll try to get as much done as I can. Promise.**

**So enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#84: Something

Pairing: FrancexUKxUS

Song: I Wish by One Direction

_But I see you with him slow dancing  
Tearing me apart  
'Cause you don't see- One Direction_

Sitting in the plastic chair, the really uncomfortable one in the corner of the gymnasium. The one that arches my back and makes my butt hurt. That's something Arthur says to me all the time.

"Stop acting so butthurt."

"You're a butthurt git, that's what you are."

Arthur says that when I whine about things. Him not responding to my texts, my emails, my messages on Facebook. Him ruining our plans because something came up. That something is Francis. French dude with perfect hair and perfect eyes. I always thought that he and Arthur hated each other. Guess not. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, I guess.

Guessing gets old. I'm not the sharpest Crayon in the box. Brightest star in the sky. So I've never understood why they're together. Seems pointless. Francis takes his hand and I die a little inside. Like something just punched me. That something is Francis. Ever since they got together, I see them everywhere. Up against the lockers, sitting side by side in the cafeteria. Half-eaten banana on the table, right next to the carton of half-drunk milk. Francis touches his fingers. Arthur's face gets all red. His eyebrows do that little wrinkly thing. I think it's cute. Apparently, so does Francis.

Me and Francis are a lot alike. We treat Arthur the same. Except he actually gets his chance to do all those things. Things that I could do, too. Like pulling the chair out for Arthur and writing him poems and singing him songs. Ok, maybe I can't do those last two. Writing isn't my strongest point. Neither is singing. Don't get me wrong, I love to sing, but I suck. I suck at a lot of things. I feel like I'm the worst, so I act like I'm the best.

Arthur laughs at me when I break out in random Katy Perry songs. Too bad he doesn't know I'm serious. Too bad he doesn't understand that the "one that got away" is him.

Tonight, I'm thinking about other songs. Songs about wishing and dying inside. I die whenever I see Francis and Arthur. This is all a riddle to me. I'm just as good as Francis, right? I can love and hold and whisper softly into ears as we lean against the lockers. I can say those three little words. I can press buttons and get strawberry milk from the vending machine. Holding Arthur when he cries wouldn't be hard. Not hard at all.

A lot easier than this.

Tonight, the school dance is messing up my insides. Bones shake when I walk across the waxed floor. Slices of neon yellow cake make my stomach turn. Dozens of balloons are stuck in the ceiling, what a waste. Feels like I've swallowed one of those balloons. Inflating every time I breathe. It presses against my ribcage and now I want to puke.

The coincidence is that Francis and Arthur just passed by. Floated by on the trails of wax. They've been dancing for most of the night. Francis pulls him by the waist. Kissing pelvises in black dress pants. I clench my fists. But not because of them. Romance doesn't make me sick. Some of my classmates pretend to puke whenever they're around. That's why Arthur cries sometimes.

I feel sick because he's dipping Arthur in the dance floor, light all over the wax and their faces. Dress pants crinkle like candy bar wrappers. Bends in the knee and arm could be brushstroked. Eyes could be written. Gasps pasteled on pieces of white paper. People think I'm shallow. So maybe art is a stranger to me. When I see them, I am on the other side of the glass, unable to touch Mona Lisa.

So I'm not shallow. I'm really not…really.

Believe me, ok?

Tell Arthur that I'm smart. Rose gardens aren't my specialty. Francis can cut them and lick Arthur's fingers when the thorns act up. He can those things, but that doesn't make him special.

I'm special. Soccer balls tangle in nets, my foot still pulsing from that kick. Movies are strewn all over the backseat of my old Volvo. Good movies. Old movies. And I can tell you all about them. Drama teachers tell me I'm great. P.E teachers tell me I'm great, too.

Not great enough, apparently.

Because I can't trim a rose garden.

Watching them spin is making me dizzy. Standing up, I don't know if I should just leave.

The DJ fades the music out. "All right, all right. Now we're gonna slow things down again."

There is a collective sigh throughout the room. No one hears it, but it's there.

"There's a twist though. You have to dance with someone other than who you came with. Come on, make a new friend tonight. Be a friend, makes somebody's night."

I try not to laugh at how he talks. It's pretty funny. Slow words from behind that overgrown beard.

"Don't be shy, folks."

This is so lame. I'm halfway to the gymnasium doors when something grabs my arm. That something is a hand. Fingers are full of pinpricks.

"Hey…"

I turn around and die a little inside. The good kind of die. The kind that makes you want to come back to life.


	85. Firsts

**A/N: For **Catatonic Inspiration**. Hope you like it! I think I might do another version of this request in the future, so thanks for the idea.**

**Not much else to say ^^", just hope you all enjoy. I am working hard to get all of the requests finished, so just be patient please! Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#85: Firsts

Pairing: SwedenxLichtenstein (brother and sister non-incest pairing)

Playgrounds are good for falling, bending over the swing set with its peeling paint and squinting in the sun. Her fingernails are chipped. Kind of like the paint. Except she bites them when she's nervous. Kids pull at the red and black. Some of them eat it, but she's smarter than that.

Big Brother Basch always tells her not to peel paint. Don't touch it, don't eat it, don't lick it. Lili rolls her eyes back. Bangs like pieces of straw in her face. Cuts could be crayon trails if not for the steady drip, drip of blood.

She pulls at the Band-Aid, just how those kids pull at the paint.

"Stop, Lili. You're going to make it worse." Big Brother kneels and kisses her forehead. "You have to be careful. Stop falling so much."

"But when I fall, I always get back up."

He sighs. "Just be careful, ok?"

"Fine."

Another eye roll. Where did she get that from? Maybe from the way Basch reacts to long lines and traffic jams and stupid people saying stupid things. He should be more careful.

But so should she. First day of the week, they go to the park. Hot yellow sun melts snails on the sidewalk. Lili never eats her ice cream fast enough. It drips down her wrist. She tries really hard to lick up all the drops.

Licking ice cream is ok. Just don't lick paint.

They walk hand in hand. Tank top showing Basch's sunburned arms, the scars all around his skin. Could be crayon trails if not for the itching. When they sit beneath the biggest tree in the park, Lili rubs the leaves all over the white marks. Basch climbs up and shakes the branches for her. Then she swims in the growing pile. Tangled up with straw bangs and gap-toothed smile. She blows one across her palm, straight at Basch's face.

"Don't the leaves tickle?"

He lets it move across his face. "Yes."

"You should be laughing, then. Tickling makes people laugh!" To prove her point, she climbs him and shakes his shoulders. Slipping her fingers in between his arms, she tickles and laughs and watches the blond hair move like branches. Basch shakes trees. Lili shakes Basch. He tries really hard to laugh.

Swing sets move on their own. It's hot, but the wind is strong. Lili jumps up, leaves still in her hair, and runs toward them. A strong hand holds her back. Basch is the wind.

Eye roll. "Relax, Big Brother. I won't hurt myself."

"But you always fall off swings."

She rips her arm away and stands with hands on hips. "I don't."

"Name one time that you didn't fall off."

A few seconds of thought. Her face turns red and she steps on a leaf. An extra crunchy leaf that breaks beneath her shoe. "The past doesn't matter! I'm gonna swing and not fall off, just watch!"

"But you're so tiny, Lili. You could break your nose or something." Basch kneels in front of her, looking at the ground. For a second, he is Little Brother. Lili can see the top of his head, the leaves stuck in his hair. Things he cannot see. She bends down to kiss him on the nose.

Noses can break, though.

Be careful, Lili.

"Don't be scared, Big Brother. This will be the first time I don't fall. Promise." Smiles like curving branches.

Sighs like falling leaves. "All right. I guess there's a first for everything."

"Yay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Socks bunched around her ankles, she runs towards the swing.

So he lets go of her hand. This is just the beginning of firsts. First day of middle school, first broken bone, first cell phone, first pimple, first kiss. Basch covers his face when he thinks of the last one. He leans back into the leaf pile. They cover his face for him.

He still feels her fingertips on his. But they are only leaves. Sad smile like greying clouds. He presses the leaf against his lips and gives it a kiss. If her fingertips were leaves, this would be her first kiss.

Now Basch never has to worry. This will be her first.


	86. Sound

**A/N: For **SmallSunshine**. Hope you like it! This is a really fun pairing to write, so thanks for the idea.**

**Enjoy, request and please review :D!**

* * *

Theme#86: Sound

Pairing: 1P!Canadax2P!Canada

James keeps his hockey stick wrapped up in the corner, right next to the bottles of maple syrup and blood. No one can ever tell the difference. Both liquids look the same in darkness. Swishing and settling when you spin them close to your ear. James likes the sound. That is his calling.

Snapping sticks and pieces of burnt bread that sprinkle black onto your lap. He loves those kinds of things. It is how the hockey stick sounds as it smashes against the puck. It is the wind in between the thorns, the sound of ice shattering. When he looks at Mattie, he hears Mattie. Each rustle of his sweatshirt, each crinkling as he crosses and uncrosses his legs. The best sounds come late at night or early in the morning.

11 P.M

Mattie is stretched out on the sofa, asleep. He does cat things. Stretches, smacks his lips and twitches randomly whenever the channel changes. Little noises come from his mouth. Subtle breathing and squeaks that remind James of a mouse. One of those really apologetic mice who take a bit of cheese and then cries about it. James looks at him, watches the chest collapse, then rebuild itself and fall apart again. Toes curl into themselves. Each one begging to be pulled, maybe even licked. With sticky maple syrup on them, they would taste just like rolled up pancakes. James blinks in the T.V light. Look at this adorable little shit...Some kind of wide-eyed S.O.B that looks cute with or without glasses. And when he's polishing them and they slip out of his hands, his red face and muttered curses make him even cuter. Eleven at night is full of small creature noises. Whimpers from small dogs that are bullied by their brothers. Tiny groans from kittens that drank too much milk. James always tells Mattie not to have chocolate milk before bed. But he never listens and drinks half a carton in one night. He mutters when he has bad dreams. Maybe a milk carton is chasing him in his sleep. Smirking, James brushes a curl out of his little kitten's face. Then those dirty little paws hug him around his midsection. A satisfied noise. Sighing into his bellybutton, just beneath his flannel shirt. Mattie curls into him. Toes curl into themselves. The T.V channels stop changing.

4 A.M

They're awake and playing video games in the living room. A hunting game with long, plastic rifles held loosely in your hand. Or in James' case, gripped tight and pressed against your cheek. They're supposed to be hunting as a team, but James keeps killing Mattie. When Mattie takes aim at a young buck, James blows his head off. Angry noises make James' ears burn with pleasure. Anxious whines, slamming that adorable blond head against the couch. Listen to this precious little shit. All complainy and mopey, whispering that it isn't very nice or fair to blow his head off. James grins and pokes him with his rifle. Neon orange smack in the center of his bellybutton. Because Mattie is holding his shirt up like he does when he's anxious. And he's biting at it, lips curled into a sad face. James keeps poking that tummy. Neon barrel digging deeper into Mattie. Skin dimples and the light from the T.V makes everything brighter. James hears the birds chirping through the screen. Sees the trees in Mattie's glasses. He is a real hunter with claws and paws, and now he will pounce upon his prey. James tackles him. Shocked gasp. Breath knocked from your lungs. Crying, then laughing. Sounds that James drinks in. Behind his glasses, his eyes are shut. Let's cuddle this bitch to death. Squeeze him until he mutters, "Maple!" Toes curl against the wires and the console is unplugged. Fake birds fade into nothing.

That is how James knows Mattie. By the whisper of his hair against his forehead. How he groans when he is sick in bed with a cold. Eyes watery with fever. That is the best time for noises. The kind of sounds that make James want to rip his flannel shirt to pieces, grab Mattie, and ride off on a moose. One of those big moose with antlers good for gorging. A sick Mattie is an adorable Mattie. James rolls into bed despite protests. Tell him to leave, to stay away. But he won't. Mattie covers his face with the sheets. James follows. Sudden sneezes and teeth chattering whenever a chill wracks his spine. That cute little spine that James kisses beneath the sheets. All soft and white. Thinking about bones. Things like pelvises and elbows bent awkwardly and trying to keep warm. James laughs and hugs him tighter. With their hunter's bodies all curled together like shoelaces, they listen and breathe.

Noises in sickness.

Noises in health.

Noises in the middle of the night. Sleep groans and other kinds of groans. Mattie's alarm clock accidentally going off. Flattening the pillow, then flipping it over. Rolling over the bumps on James' knees, the ant bites on Mattie's stomach. Whispered words of happiness, pleasure, and pain. Fingertips on fingertips. Smacking lips like cats.

Noises in the morning. Sipping coffee in the kitchen. Listening to flower petals fall as Mattie trims the bouquet. Hands on the clock move slowly. James looks at it through his sunglasses and listens to the sounds of the kitchen. Water runs into the garbage disposal, right over the skin of a peeled orange. Fan blades hum above Mattie's head. James is tempted to yell, "Look out, dipshit. Bees!" But he won't. He sips his coffee and looks at his hockey stick in the corner. Bottles of maple syrup and blood. The blood comes from weekend hunting expeditions. James likes to keep it as a souvenir. Instead of the typical decapitated heads and stuffed animals with glass eyes. Blood from a deer, a rabbit, maybe even a moose. Sometimes, Mattie mistakes the blood for syrup. He'll shriek and drop the bottle right before James intervenes. Catching it fast and quick, his ponytail slapping his back. Someday, he will break both bottles over their heads and they'll roll around on the floor. Smiling and laughing.

Noises every day.

Every second of every day.

That is what James loves. All of those little sounds strewn about the week like laundry. Tonight, they'll watch T.V and the noises will make him curse and blush. The little shit, look how cute he is.

The ring in James' pocket will make even more noise. He'll hear it in his pants. Hopefully, Mattie will not notice, not until the perfect moment…


	87. Date Night

**A/N: For **FreezinWinter **and **carrotgirlhatty**. I combined two requests into one! Sorry for the late update, guys, I've been so busy with school ^^". But I will try to be more regular... Also, last chapter got no reviews, come on people! xD. Make my day!**

**Anywho, enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#87: Date Night

Pairing: EnglandxLichtenstein

Arthur runs through the English rain. It's cold, how unsuspecting. Big drops, dipping his wrists in icy buckets of water. One time, Lili dropped her ice cream cone on his arm. It kind of felt like this. She laughed and tried to lick it off his wrist. But he pulled back, blushing and muttering about "un" words. Like "un-ladylike" and "inappropriate". Oh wait, that's an "in" word. Whatever. Arthur rolls his eyes and keeps running.

Lili is waiting for him in the Windmill Inn. Waiting with her blue ribbon and blonde hair cut messily along her neck. It's one of those nice little pubs. Low ceiling, everything made of some heavy wood. The chairs are hard to lift. Outside, people smoke and watch the clouds drift over the town. Smoke curling into the umbrellas along with laughter and bits of gossip. But how much gossip can Stratford-Upon-Avon have? This tiny town floating in the English past. River parting, church towering, bell ringing, neighborhood sprawling and reminding them of simpler days.

That's where the Windmill Inn is. Tucked in between a dozen cute houses. Potted plants lean over the awning. Arthur forgets to duck.

"Bloody hell!"

Hitting his head against the doorframe. Slick boots and a few moments of crossed eyes, and then he's on the floor. Practically sliding across the wood, Arthur looks like some kind of cartoon character. Skidding and scrambling, the rain silenced by the slamming door. He hits his head against a chair leg. Right between the eyes.

Luckily, the restaurant isn't packed. A family in one corner, a few friends in another. Random people are scattered at the bar and those heavy chairs are being dragged across the floor. People look, laughing over their drinks. And then the Englishness kicks in.

"You all right, mate?"

"Hey, you ok?"

A random "Sorry" is thrown out because…well, because they're English and that comes naturally. Someone stands over him, trying to bite back her laughter. Her blue ribbon is slipping down her head. A long day of waitressing and serving cold pints over the bar. She's tired and she's been waiting all evening, but there he is…

Her hero.

"Arthur, what happened?"

"Had a little fall, that's it." He stumbles to his feet, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing to see here, folks! Nothing at all."

Lili giggles and pulls him close.

"Oh, Arthur."

Hugging him, her hands around his waist because she's too short to reach for his neck. Cheek pressed against his soaking wet shirt. She laughs and kisses his chest.

"Look at you, all wet and out of breath." Another kiss, a little "boop" on the nose. "You're too cute."

"N-Not as cute as you…love."

He says this through a lopsided smile. Shivering and trying to be all suave. Lili laughs some more.

"You called me love. Even cuter."

Blushing from both sides. Rain and heat from the drinks on the table. Wet clothes on dry ones on wet skin and dry skin. Pieces of hair get tangled up.

Someone shouts from across the pub. "Just kiss 'er already!"

How rude. How…un-English of them. But who cares? Arthur laughs and does what they say. It's a simple kiss, kind of like simpler times. Cute and beautiful as potted plants dripping with rain. Watching the smoke curl beneath umbrellas on a late summer's night.

The most perfect date night.

* * *

Pairing: 1P!Italyx2P!Italy 

Could the night be any darker? Shadow trees fringed with sleeping bats and dead leaves. A new moon, an empty sky. All of it vacant, looking for a tenant, just one, and finding none.

Could this grass be any sharper? Silver knives hidden, bare feet raw and bitten. Some glass shards, drops of blood. All of it smelling, reeking of sin, snakes slithering to find their way in.

Could this room be any smaller? Bed eating the floor and the ceiling, naked body kneeling. Stained sheets, broken vases. All of it stealing, ripping innocence away, leave it for another day.

Feliciano lives in the big black house. The house next to the shadow trees, standing over the sharp grass. He lives in the small room, sleeping in the big bed. He kneels every night, fingers gripping the stained sheets. Someone breaks one of the crystal vases. Glass shards trace words on Feliciano's back. Words like "love" and "truth" and "shame". His knuckles are all bitten up. He likes the way the glass feels. Slicing apart his fingertips like paper. Watching the droplets hit the wooden floor. He likes it because only Luciano can do it right.

His servant.

Luciano lives in the big black house, too. He lives in the kitchens, where the servants clean and cook. On a dirty cot, he never sleeps. But he still dreams about his master. Using knives to cut pasta is one thing. Using them to cut his lover is another. Not angry or cruel, just curious. Cutting makes things clear. He grips the kneeling Feliciano every night. In that small room with that big bed. All of those stained sheets covered in blood. Hands up and down. Cool satin on a marble statue. All beautiful things are tense. Twitching when the vase breaks, when the first shard meets the skin.

Luciano is an artist. Figures carved by angry hands in the heat of midnight. Because inspiration strikes at the most inconvenient hours. When you're tired and trying not to fall asleep.

Tonight, they are in that little room. Feliciano rests his head on the bed. Cheek pressed against the sheets, accepting the cold. The heat from the one behind him. Curls quickly undone as hands undo them. So many "un" words. Unapproachable and indescribable. No, that's an "in" word. All of Feliciano's teachings are melting away. His tutors are slipping away. Now, his teacher is his servant. His servant is his teacher.

Coats and belts on the hardwood floor. Bare skin against bare skin. Luciano grips him. Hands on his chest, feeling every inch of that sculpture. Kneeling behind his master. Blood drips slowly to the floor.

It is the way he holds him. Like Feliciano is his most prized possession.

They shudder and gasp and close their eyes. Tonight is black and sharp.

Eyes open in the darkness.

The perfect date night.


	88. Ready

**A/N: For **AnAccurateRumor**. Hope you like it! I seriously apologize for the slow updates, college can be a pain in the neck (lol). And I've been trying to get back into writing original stuff, which is so hard for me right now xD.**

**Enough of my personal qualms haha, onto the drabble. This request has Norway as a genderqueer and Denmark loving every aspect of that ^^. Yay for Norway in a skirt. So enjoy, request, and please review!**

**P.S: For future requests, I really want you guys to just go crazy with your ideas! We are approaching the end of the 100 themes challenge, so I want the last ten drabbles or so to be epic. So go nuts with pairing, themes, plots, etc. Nothing is too crazy haha xD.**

**Enjoy :).**

* * *

Theme#88: Ready

Song: Same Love by Macklemore

_Love is patient_  
_Love is kind_  
_Love is patient_  
_Love is kind- Macklemore_

Getting ready for school is a team effort. Six-thirty, the beeping starts, then the iPod starts to shuffle and Andersen hears blurry notes in his sleep. Could be anything. But it's usually Katy Perry whispering into his ear. Fireworks burst in his brain. All colorful lines that trace patterns across his eyes. Dream catchers, nebulas, breaking stars that smell like peaches. The kind of peaches that are just ripening, full and pink on the branch. Through the haze of sleep, Andersen tastes the peach and all of its flavors.

Bitter at first. Fuzzy and kind of electrically charged. He flinches and smiles against the skin. Sweet second. A surprising find like warm water beneath the ice. Nipping at the pinkness, he smiles and moves closer. When the peach pulls away, he laughs.

Out of shock, out of hurt. Out of that tiny human emotion called love.

When he opens his eyes, the peach is there. It is a round, pale face. Two eyes, some lips, pieces of blond hair all over the pillow.

"Good morning, sexy."

His peach smiles for half a second. Licking his lips, looking at the art all over the walls. There are pictures of fairies in moonlight dresses. Torn piece of paper right behind his head, a unicorn kneeling in a golden field.

Lukas looks back at the drawing. He remembers when he drew it. In art class, the day after his first fight with Andersen. Holding back the tears was hard. Amber grass is stained with tiny drops. But those fights are few and far between. Most days, they walk hand in hand. Fingers loosely tied, eyes connected at the pupils.

He yawns and stretches into Andersen. Arms line up, bodies parallel and warm and fresh from sleep. Katy Perry wakes them up every morning. Lukas' parents are probably at work already, so they are safe to cuddle.

Because Lukas is a man of few words, they snuggle in silence. Andersen sleeps in a pair of plaid boxers. Goosebumps blossom on his chest. So Lukas moves closer and squishes his cheek against that stomach. Hard and incredibly smooth like ice. They stay like this for a few minutes. Slowly moving closer and closer and finally bent into each other. Puzzle pieces scattered across the sheets.

It's time to get ready for school. Every couple has their quirks. The one that plays words games and goes looking through the dictionary for synonyms to love. The one that spends every Friday night watching the same movie, eating the same pizza from the same place down the street.

Andersen and Lukas have a quirk.

Andersen gets Lukas ready for school. Every day, ever since they got together. He says that he's the "king", so he should help his little princess get ready for the ball. Lukas just blinks and mutters that he isn't a princess.

"Why can't I be a unicorn?"

"Fine. Be a unicorn. Whatever, man." Andersen goes through Lukas' closet. It's full of fairytale colors. Pastels and patterns that Andersen sees in his sleep.

Lukas rolls back and forth, flattening the sheets. Jotunn the stuffed troll is crushed beneath his chest. He pulls the creature up, pressing it against his face and trying to fall back asleep.

"This unicorn is going back to bed."

"What?!" Andersen reacts in his overdramatic way. Throwing the hangers into the air, his hair even wilder than normal. "You gotta get up. We're gonna be late."

Lukas' voice is muffled by Jotunn. "Since when do you care about school?"

"Since you got these adorable clothes." He waggles his eyebrows. "I've got to show you off at school. Now wake up. Let me put your socks on at least."

"Ok…" Face covered by equal amounts of troll and blond hair, he raises his legs.

Atop the sheets, Andersen loves how smooth they feel. Like ice. His idea for today is a simple one. Kind of that whole "school girl" theme. He's been planning this for a while. Crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. Ripped from an advertisement about a school uniform store. He saw it and immediately thought of Lukas. Toes turned in, hands tucked behind his back. Andersen pulls a pair of long black socks out of the dresser. He has memorized where Lukas keeps all of his clothes.

Bedroom cold, fan blades keeping them cold forever. Glasses of water on the vanity, cold to touch. Andersen accidentally bumps into one, cursing as it tilts.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He snaps the socks. "Now get your toes ready. They're about to be embraced by the epitome of silky smoothness."

He's right. The socks are softer anything. Polar bear fur, fuzzy caps that you wear in winter. Lukas sighs happily and settles into his pillow. Andersen pulls them all the way up his thighs. Legs straight in the air, Lukas' eyes visible behind Jotunn the troll.

"Those are cute socks I guess."

"Damn straight!" Andersen sticks his face between Lukas knees and sticks his tongue out. "Check out the shirt I picked for you."

It's a white polo. He pulls it over Lukas' head and stuffs his arms through. For s few seconds, he rests his chin on Lukas' head, reveling in the smell of peaches. The iPod shuffles again and Macklemore is playing. Smooth the shirt; slip his hand into the pocket.

Then he takes the plaid skirt out from the drawers.

Lukas blushes. "Wow…that's really, really cute."

"You know it."

Lukas is still lying down when Andersen puts the skirt on him. He just lays there, subtly moving his body to the beat of the music. Andersen has to roll him over to fasten the skirt. He's cursing and muttering the whole time, and then he's done and he leaps into the air.

"Hell yes! You're perfect!"

"Thanks." Lukas stands up, looking down at his feet. "And you, uh, really think the whole skirt thing is ok?"

"Of course. I wouldn't put it on you if I didn't like it."

"Oh." Blushing even harder. "I'm glad. When you first asked me out, I was a little nervous to tell you about my…fashion sense."

Andersen grins, hugging him and putting him a headlock. "I love your fashion sense, buddy. It's damn sexy." He glances at the clock. "Now I'll throw on some jeans and a button-up and we'll get out of here."

"Wait." Lukas walks over to the dresser. Digging through the drawers, he pulls out a plaid tie. Not exactly matching his skirt, but close enough. He offers it to Andersen. "Here. Wear this. That way, we'll match."

"Perfect!"

They leave the house at seven-fifteen. Hand in hand, ready to show each other off at school.


	89. Thieves

**A/N: For **CreativelyOriginal**. Hope you like it! Only 11 more drabbles left! Aaaaaahhhhhhh xD.**

**Sooooo, give me your craziest ideas! **CatatonicInspiration **already sent me a really epic request so the bar has been set high. It can be any pairing, and the plot can be based off a song, a prompt, just one word, an anime, a tv show, a movie, whatever! So think of something epic and request, please ^^.**

**Oh, and review as well haha. :)**

* * *

Theme#89: Thieves

Pairing: PrussiaxScotland

Somersaulting into the wall, Gilbert moves just in time. He feels his feet against the brick, teeth clenched, body ready. His hands are still bound, eyes still blindfolded. But he senses it all. The hot sun boiling puddles in the street. Smell of hay and dirt and sad people with straw in their hair. He feels mud, slick cobblestone. Falling off the cart hurt enough. Now he is cocked like a spring. He'll jump into anything.

Today has not been his day. He woke up in Alistair's arms for starters. Something he never meant to do. Stolen whiskey can make you do some strange things, though. Night before, a blur. Hazy images of campfires and worn-out boots. The pair that Gil stole from a nobleman. They've always been so soft and supple. Kind of like Alistair, actually. When Gil woke up, he smelled like leaves and brass buckles. Gil's sense of smell has always been good.

Grinning like mad, secretly hating himself, he kicked Alistair away and put his boots back on. Then they're tragic day began. How fun. Thieves lead such interesting lives. Eating overripe apples and moldy bread, trying not to nod off on each other. They said nothing about their little rendezvous.

They were robbing a caravan when it happened. Just a little one headed by some greedy fat ass. He deserved to be robbed. The guards were quick. Gil heard their horses, the clinking chainmail, and then they were upon him. He pushed Alistair into the high grass.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Run, idiot! Get outta here!" Gil pushed him harder, back down into the grass. Dandelions exploded around them.

"I can't leave you." Alistair struggled to his feet. "Who will help me finish the whiskey?"

"Don't be a moron, just go!" Another shove. Falling into the tall blades, white puffs floating across their faces. If the timing was right, Gil would have grabbed him by his collar and pulled him up and…

But the timing was awful. The guards were there. So he punched Alistair across the cheek and ran off, screaming.

"You can't catch me, you bastards! Just try and catch me!"

But they caught him.

They tied his hands and blindfolded him. Everything felt so tight. Rope dug into his wrists, blood dripping down his fingers. Try harder, Gil. Be brave. He thought of Alistair's cigar and flaming hair. It made him grit his teeth.

The cart full of prisoners rolled across the cobblestone. Different sounds. Gasps from children and shrieks of excitement. Horses snorted next to him. Their breath hot.

He blinked beneath the blindfold. Breaths came in heavy draws from deep inside. With each draw, he pictured more and more of Alistair. Fists were clenched behind his back.

_Just be glad he's safe. Just hope the idiot is safe…_

And then the cart lurched and Gil tumbled out. Voices started shouting.

"The driver's been hit!"

"It's an ambush!"

"Look, on the rooftop!"

So now Gil is poised against the wall. He flips and lands on his feet. Just barely, staggering backwards. Crack! He hits his head against the brick.

Chaos is everywhere. Screaming, moaning, horses neighing and stomping their hooves. Blindfold confusing him, breath quickening. He struggles in his bonds.

A hand grabs him. Strong, yet soft…like leather.

"I'm here to save your sorry arse."

Gil laughs. "You're late, Alistair."

"I come and go as I please. Now let me take care of these guards. All right, hen?"

"Tear them apart! And don't call me—"

Alistair silences him. Soft and supple like leather. Then he's gone and Gil can still taste the overripe apples.

He hears slicing metal and smiles. Today isn't as bad as he thought. Maybe they'll steal another bottle of whiskey tonight, just for good measure.


	90. Red

**A/N: For **FallingStarsOfSilver**. Hope you like it! Just so you all know, I will get to all of your requests eventually. Just give me some time. I will fit them all in. Promise ^^. Remember, give me your craziest requests! Come on people, let your imagination run wild!**

**So enjoy, request, and please review. Reviews motivate me :D.**

* * *

Theme#90: Red

Pairing: Snapped!CanadaxRussia

Dear Ivan,

You don't see me. None of them do. What am I, your imaginary friend? It's fine, it's ok. It's not like you mean to. I'm easy to miss. Out on your windowsill, I count the sunflower seeds. You toss them out here sometimes, out with me. Birds eat some of them. Squirrels nab a few. There's fur on the metal spikes. Why do you put barbed wire around your yard, Ivan? To keep me out?

When the seeds roll into the dirt, the flowers grow. I watch them climb higher. Dark green stems bend. Black dirt draws them near. Me, too. Toes in the mud feel warm and nice. I wish you were warm and nice. But you're cold. Can you help it, though? Frozen blood rolls through your veins. I huddle outside your window, wishing I could climb inside.

Glasses begin to fog. Toes, once warm and nice, are hard to bend. It is cold in Fall. Don't you know that? Won't you let me inside? I never bang on your window because you might get scared. Scared would be nice, though. To see fear in those eyes for a change. Sweat on your forehead must freeze on contact. I want to break the icicles off. One by one, slowly and deliberately. Harsh in my hands. I'll roll them back and forth. And then I'll force them through your eyes and maybe you'll finally see me.

Because I am getting tired, Ivan. Rain drips down the pane as the storm comes. Leaves slap the glass, ripping themselves apart. Maybe I should do the same.

No one sees me. Not even you. Walking down the sidewalk, you bump into me. Scarf flailing behind you, you mutter an apology and keep walking. Sunlight breaks the trees in half. I am one part shadow, one part light as I watch you go.

Look at me. Please?

Just turn you head a little to the right. I am hiding in plain sight.

My color is obvious. A bright red smeared across the sky. I am red in the morning. Cheeks flushed from a night in the cold. I sleep in the piles of leaves by your shed.

I am red in the afternoon. As I see you change in your bedroom, my ears turn scarlet. I can look nice, too. When I change, you can see the invisible scars made by all of you.

Especially you.

But you didn't mean it, right?

I am red in the evening. Red with rage because you never look out your window. I shake next to the leaf pile. They shake, too. Together, we tremble and tear ourselves apart.

Tonight, I am redder than ever. Experiencing insomnia in a pool of my own blood. I grab a fistful of leaves.

Tonight, you will notice me. I guarantee it.

You'll notice me when I punch your window in. You'll notice me when I drag the metal pipe across the floor. My glasses are sideways but I don't care.

I see you in the kitchen. My mind is red. My body is red, too.

And then I'm upon you, smashing your head into the refrigerator door. Where'd I come from? You'll never know. You sound shocked and scared. At last. The pipe clatters to the ground. You fight back, clawing at my body, scratching my skin. I pull your hair. You scream and punch me in the abdomen.

Seven-thirty pm, and blood is smeared across the floor. We keep fighting. I'm so tired, but you keep coming. Punch, punch, hair pull. Punch, punch, hair pull. It's like clockwork. You do the same thing over and over again.

I am so sick of this. You can't kill me; I won't let you kill me. You have to notice me, that's all. I hit you in the face and fall to floor, looking for the pipe. My nose is bleeding.

You grab my hair.

In one final effort, I reach for the pipe. It's in my grasp. I turn and hit you across the thigh.

You screams, I scream. Wow, your scream is beautiful.

I stand up and push you against the sink, the pipe against your throat.

"Notice me, Ivan!" And then I shove your hand into the garbage disposal and turn it on. There's a fountain of blood as your fingers are ripped off. I'm laughing, crying, and screaming all at the same time.

There's so much blood, and so much pain. I wrench your hand out of the disposal and fall back against the table. My head hits the corner with a sharp crack, and then I'm gone.

Seven-fifty-two and I'm lying on the tile. Blood covers the floor. What happened?

Rolling over, I find you next to me. Passed out. You're still alive.

…Yay.

So I sit atop you and hold you tight. Fingers wriggling in between your open wounds. Your blood is warm and nice. Just how I imagined. Your scars are visible and they feel like highways beneath me. Roads that my fingers travel. I like to trace your cuts in the dark. Because I know them all. You breathe evenly under my body.

I sign my name on your chest. It is red and warm. The end of my letter.

Thanks for noticing me, Ivan. When you wake up, I'll bind your wounds and let your hug me tight.

Just notice me, ok? Never forget. Never, ever, ever again.

Ok?

Love,

Mattie


	91. Stargazing

**A/N: For **hetaliaislife3**. Hope you like it! So for this one, I decided to try something new and accept an OC. This OC, created by the requester, is Tokyo. Her human name is Yumi. I took the theme and changed the meaning, so a "star" in this drabble is a famous person instead of a heavenly body.**

**I am getting so close to the end of this fic...I am sad yet happy. Bitttersweet. So, I know it's a lot to ask, but if this could make it to 300 reviews by the end I would be overwhelmed with so many feels. It would make my life xD.**

**But please, keep requesting your crazy ideas and drop a review if you can. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Theme#91: Stargazing

Pairing: OCTokyoxSeborga

Paparazzi catch him in their crosshairs. Massive lenses all black and groping. He feels them everywhere and hides behind his hood. Unless it's a pretty lady, then he's grinning like a Cheshire cat. But it is never an attractive lady. They are creepers and men in backwards baseball caps. They throw things at the window to catch his attention. He watches a magazine go sliding down the glass. Even this frozen yogurt shop is unsafe.

Romeo sighs and wraps his scarf around his mouth. All bunched up so no one can read his expression. The next issue will probably contain a picture of him shoveling yogurt into his mouth, "Celebrities are just like you! They eat frozen yogurt!" Wow, really? Who knew people ate frozen yogurt on hot summer days?

He could mess with them, but that would take effort. Today, he is not in the mood. Red velvet yogurt melts on his tongue.

A pretty lady on his lap, some cream cheese frosting on her lips, fingers pulling at his curl, that would be perfection. But he'll have to settle with solitude in the middle of an empty shop.

Glass boxes hold you in. They keep stuff out, too. Men with big, black lenses. Romeo is tempted to stick his tongue out at them.

He slips out the back, medium sized cup in the trash. Car on and ready. The drive back is boring as usual. Driver says nothing. Romeo says nothing.

Home is exactly the same. If you could call it home. Romeo walks out of shoes, flinging them against the marble statue of Venus. His hotel room is on the top floor. Last night, he heard someone on the roof. It sounds insane. Who the hell walks on a hotel roof? But it was there and real, music shaking the ceiling.

Crystal chandeliers trembled. Romeo rolled over, satin sheets tangling. Bed empty like usual. He never takes them home. Women just get a little bit here, a little bit there. Then he sends them off with a butt slap and wave of his hand. No one comes to his hotel. That's just…no.

So when he heard the music, he thought he was dreaming. No one is above him, not ever. He never bothered to check.

Now, after a day of frozen yogurt and running from the paparazzi, he is tired and spacy. He goes to the roof without thinking. Celebrities can afford to do stuff like that. Hoodie and scarf wrapped around his face. Romeo is so engrossed in his thoughts, he doesn't hear the girl coming up the stairs.

Her footsteps echo in the blank stairwell, the cord from her headphones quietly slapping each step. She opens the door and comes onto the roof. Black hair rippling in the breeze, a guitar case slung around her shoulder. Her eyes, dark and deep. Black and white plastic framed glasses. Not being very tall in the first place, the guitar case seems to weigh her down. But there is something else too, something unseen that forces her to the ground. Shyness, fear, a longing to be accepted.

Look to the sky. It is such a beautiful day. She needs to play.

She lays down the case and takes out her guitar. With her head phones covering her ears, trapping her inside a world of music. She is ready.

Romeo hears the click of the amp and his eyes widen.

_It can't be…_

Squinting in the bright sunlight, he sees a figure standing on the other side of the roof top. A girl with lostness written all over her face. Or maybe driftness or whisperness or another "ness" that doesn't exist. Skinny jeans and a hoodie. Delicate fingers on the strings.

And then she plays. Stretching out the first notes, letting them soar like a flock of birds, and then the melody comes, fast and intense.

Hi eardrums are about to burst; his whole head vibrating, eyes shaking in his skull.

Without thinking, he jumps to his feet and runs the length of the rooftop, breathing heavy. A very real flock of birds rises up from the street and into the sky. Their shadows mix with Romeo's. Shadow Romeo reaches for the girl.

"Hey!"

She stops playing. Slowly, her eyes opens, and she looks shyly through her glasses.

"Where…" Romeo tries to catch his breath. "Where'd you learn to play like that?"

The girl blushes and looks down at the ground. "Uh, I taught myself. It's awful, I know."

"No, no! You kidding me, bella? You're amazing." He pulls the scarf down.

A sound between a gasp and a squeak. She takes a step back. "You're Romeo Vargas. Why would you….what would you want with me, I'm nobody."

"I heard you playing last night. You woke me up."

"Really? Oh, uh, I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head. "No need to apologize. It was beautiful music."

"Thanks…really." She smiles and offers her hand, her fingers shaking. "I-I'm Yumi by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Yumi." He takes her fingers, kissing each one, smiling against her skin. "Keep these fingers safe, bella. They are beautiful. Just like your music. Just like you."

Yumi blushes even harder. This star stands in front of her, glowing on the roof, on the paper sky. He can't be real, can he? But she feels him there. Soft scarf ripples against her elbow. She smiles wider. Unsure of what to think, how to feel.

After all, what should you do when you're stargazing?

When a meteor appears out of nowhere and touches down?

When you think you are alone on a roof, but someone else is there, ready to fall?

Like a star.


	92. Reality

**A/N: For** Kalina**. Hope you like it! This pairing is really cute, so thanks for the request ^^.**

**Keep requesting people, whatever your minds can dream up. Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#92: Reality

Pairing: AmericaxSouthKorea

Song: Come Down With Love by AllStar Weekend

_I know it's true  
I've come down with love  
I can't get enough  
I won't break this fever- All Star Weekend_

Video games in the early afternoon, when the sun is high and yellow. Hot puddles of steam on the sidewalk, just outside the arcade where everyone plays. Im Yong is there now. He likes the way the buttons feel beneath his fingertips. Flicking the joystick is always fun. He never bothers to push the hair out of his eyes. It just lies there, flat and black against his forehead.

Eyes rove, fingers dove, finding the secret treasure trove at the end of the level. Cheeks burning like hot stoves. Moving his pirate ship around the coves. People drone on and on behind him. But he doesn't hear. It's all about the grove at the end of the screen. The hidden place full of jewels and skeletons and—

Alfred just walked up behind him. His loud voice floats over the crowd. Immediately, it's there. That feeling deep inside. True, they're only highschoolers. True, they're just supposed to be friends. But truth is wavering. Especially in the gaming world. Code can be manipulated into many things. Pixels in a pirate sword. Dialogue on the screen. Im Yong's truth is jumbled up inside him. Nerves rolling around. There are rubber bands being snapped against his skin, his organs, his brain. Alfred is the perpetrator.

Im Yong tries to keep his happy face. They both share that outgoing smile. But inside, he's burning up.

When Alfred comes up behind him, he flinches and starts laughing. Like when he's cooking kimchi and burns himself on the stove, hollow laughter mixed with sucking fingers. Alfred pinches his waist.

"Hey, pirate king. How's the game coming?"

The pirate ship gets hit and sinks into the sea. Game Over.

Im Yong laughs even harder. Leaning into Alfred, resting his head on that space between collarbone shoulder, he smiles into his neck. "It was going good. But because of you, I just lost."

"Sure it wasn't just your lack of skills, dude?"

"Please, I'm good at everything."

They start laughing together. Im Yong's oversized hoodie is soft and warm. Alfred's bomber jacket is rough and cold.

Im Yong squeezes his cheeks. Red fingerprints appear just below the glasses. They stand for a few seconds, sliding against each other, feeling the heat rise. Could be the machines overheating, the lack of A/C and the dead fans spinning overhead. Im Yong knows what it really is. Fever.

Rubber band snaps turn to bug bites. They're itching and trying not to scratch.

Two girls from their highschool are playing a dancing game in the corner. Alfred jumps away.

"Hey, classmates at twelve o' clock!"

His angry whisper always makes Im Yong blush. "Yeah, I see them. Just act natural."

They clear their throats and move to a different game. That's the funny thing about truth. It can be changed by anyone. People think things and see things and spread rumors about all sorts of things. If their classmates ever found out…

Im Yong shakes his head. No, no one will ever know. He and Alfred can go their separate ways during school. The football player and the video game addict. Then they can go home and watch Korean Soap Operas together and cuddle on the couch. No one will ever have to know. But hiding is hard.

Sneaking around a level is difficult enough.

Sneaking around your life is torture.

This is reality, though. So why bother trying to change it?

Today has turned into a reconnaissance mission. Alfred leans against Galaga, watching Im Yong play. Exploding enemies are reflected in his glasses. Whenever the classmates move closer, they change games.

Pinball, Space Invaders, racing games that involve a lot of Alfred reaching over and grabbing Im Yong's wheel.

Laughing, stopping, gasping, realizing, changing, sighing, back to laughing. It never ends.

Early afternoon melts into early evening. The arcade is closing up.

"Just one more, Alfie."

"But I've never even heard of this game. It probably sucks."

"Don't be mean, it looks like fun!"

"Whatever, man. It's your quarter."

Im Yong smiles. "No, it's yours. I stole it out of your pocket when we were on the motorcycle game." He slips the coin into the slot before Alfred can respond.

The game, called Reality, lights up. A little bit more than normal. A little bit brighter, louder, slowly increasing then quickly, faster and faster. Eyes rove, face dove, straight into the screen, straight into the game. Finding this treasure trove. Cheeks burning like stoves. Computers drone on and on and on and—

Blinking, they wonder where they are.

Alfred takes Im Yong's hand.

They keep blinking, and the scene changes. One game to the next.

First, horror:

Alfred, a creature with shadows for eyes.

Im Yong, a poor little human boy in a tunic.

"Come." Alfred sounds commanding. He holds out his hand. Im Yong walks up and grabs his hand. The light from the clock face illuminates their shadows, which join beneath their feet. Shadows around Im Yong's feet, up his legs and across the curves of his body. Both are consumed in darkness. Alfred's eyes glow crimson in the blackness. They vanish.

A second of confused screams and departing words, and then Im Yong is standing inside a great cathedral. In and out of focus. He rubs his eyes, black dots swooping across his vision. Someone snickers behind him. There's Alfred, stepping out of the shadows. Eyes shining, grinning wildly. He offers his hand again.

"Come on."

Then they're fighting skeletons in a massive cathedral. Gain a level, get some items. Good job. Next game.

Second, post-apocalyptic RPG:

Alfred, a mercenary.

Im Yong, idealistic weapons maker.

Maybe the future can be better.

Im Yong blinks away the sand and takes another bite of jerky. Behind him, Alfred is following steadily, feet dragging in the sand. They have been out in the wilderness for a little over two weeks. The exact same scene unfolding before them. A place of colorless waste, devoid of life, absent of history. Past, present, future; the beginning of a tireless end. Nothing is behind or before them, nothing but sand and sunlight. The few human beings they encounter are simple people, bent on the will to survive. Like rogue wolves they scour the empty soil. Survival of the fittest prevails out here.

Then they're fighting some bandits. Gain another level. Find some treasure chests. Good job. Next game.

Third, singing:

Alfred, a judge.

Im Yong, a rising star.

The music starts. Alfred cannot believe his ears. Im Yong's voice is high, but also raw and unique. He sings the notes with a kind of throatiness that no one else but him could make sound good. He flies through the words. The voice, mannerisms, and facial expressions…all of it making Alfred sweat. The end comes, Im Yong becoming stronger and stronger, and finally ending on a high note. When he finishes, he raises the microphone up in a victory pose, his chest heaving. Alfred gives him a ten.

Then they're switching places and Alfred is singing and sounding like crap. But he still gets a ten. Raise your charisma points, get some special coins. Good job. Let's keep going.

They fly through the games. This version of reality much better than our own. No one is watching or whispering behind half-opened doors. No need to hide and meet in the locker room, sweating and breathing hard. No reason to keep the fingers apart, lying close on the desk but never touching. No need. No reason. No one. Just them soaring through space.

Reality can be fun, see? Maybe they'll stay here forever. Because when they're holding hands, killing monsters and becoming popstars, everything is perfect.

At least, it feels that way.

Who would ever want to go back?


	93. Lupine

**A/N: Ok, this drabbles fulfills two requests for SeaLat, so here you are **Falling Stars Of Silver **and **Amy Kitty Katz** who both asked for a SeaLat. Hope you like it!**

**Just so I can get everyone's requests in, the last few chapters will have multiple drabbles within them, so keep requesting! Enjoy, request, and please review :).**

**P.S: The little poem in here is a short section from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. **

* * *

Theme#93: Lupine

Pairing: SealandxLatvia

Castle walls are intertwined with roses, dark red that seeps like blood upon the ground. Twisting vines. Thorns grabbing at white socks. Abandoned shoes lie scuffed and muddy. Peter must run through hell to get here. Through crumbling stone that turns to seashell dust in his hands. Black branches and leaves that look like women's hands. He runs, sweating and panting as the moon rises high. Wolf howls make him shiver. But it's the good kind of shiver. Starting at your toes and climbing up your spine. In the way that icicles fringe a gutter. People turn to stone like this. Toenail first, feeling the bones harden and then the heart and you're gone.

Peter loves that feeling. People in the village call him a little rascal. But if they only knew. How his feet are laced with scratches from running barefoot in the woods. Clumps of hair are caught by lady fingers. Tears go streaming. It is cold and his breath freezes. His heart is growing. Doubling in size and wishing that everything could just stop. Harder and harder. It's crying.

No, not yet, little one. Keep running. Peter cries out and clutches his chest. The blood is so tangible. It's there, sprinting through his veins. Thorns running up a vine. Bloody roses bloom beneath the moon and the stars that spell out constellations. Scary pictures. Monsters from stories told in the village. White wagtails soar over the countryside, singing and watching with their white eyes.

Peter hates all this nature. Hard wood and stumps bursting with plants. He wants the water. So he runs to the castle by the sea. Crashing waves break the stone. Roses gorge on moonlight. Peter rubs his face against one.

He's lying on the grass, panting. Legs spilling all over the place. He is milk. Soft and fresh and sloppy and making a mess all over your chin.

But _he _doesn't care.

The one who waits for him in the castle. Behind all of the petals dusted with salt, waiting under black velvet.

Raivas runs just as much as Peter. Except he goes tripping down stairs. Ripped curtains are nothing but shadows in the dark. He skids all over the marble, already crying because of the pain in his chest. His heart is like Peter's. Growing, hammering. The nails shoved into his ankles are better than this. All those years being hunted, spears grazing the spine, nothing can compare to this.

Peter's had it harder, he knows this. Living in the village can't be easy. But Peter loves people and wants to be accepted. So he stays and laughs. And when the full moon rises high he runs toward the sea.

Raivas is afraid of people. His tiny kingdom unraveled before him, fingers desperately trying to tie things together. Curses are black and bloody. No one likes those. Mothers and Fathers hate and become leaves on a dying tree. The wind carries them away. Raivas is alone. Abandoned, scuffed and muddy. Princes are supposed to be loved.

That is why he turned Peter in the dead of winter. When he found the boy playing by the craggy rocks. He cried when he bit the milky flesh. But it was a good thing…yes, a good thing. Every crybaby needs a friend.

And now they change together beneath the full moon rising high.

Raivas bursts out of his castle and falls next to Peter. Head looming over his, the thick tears falling onto that smiling face.

"Don't cry, Raivas. Come on now, be happy." Crooked smile, crooked fingers on a crooked cheekbone.

"B-But it hurts. And you hurt, too." He sniffs and lets his forehead touch Peter's chin. Faces lined up, turned around beneath the moon. He feels the cool breath on his skin.

"So we hurt together. No big deal. And soon, we'll be wolves running through the forest. And we can play and chase our tails and have fun. Like we do every month." Smiles even wider. Tears prick at his eyes. "Just be happy, Raivas. Think of a poem. A pretty poem, and tell it to me."

Peter can't help but cry. It's like his ribs are about to break. They'll hold hands and moan into each other's hair for a little while. But then they'll be gone, deep inside a wolf's mind. So now is the time.

Raivas nods. He's thinking. The faces go on and off. Grimace, contemplation, grimace, trying not to cry.

"Think harder, Raivas."

Another nod. "Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; for thou wilt lie upon the wings of night whiter than new snow on a raven's back. Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night, give me my Romeo…"

Peter laughs beneath him. "Hard to understand. But can I be Romeo? Please, oh please?"

"S-Sure."

Their time is broken with their bones. Words stay with them, their only comfort. Only thing to lie in and smell and feel. Soft velvet beds they sleep in every morning after the change. Crushed velvet comes with sunrise.

Tonight, they claw at the grass. Ripping it out in tufts, writhing against the weeds. Raivas does nothing but sob. Peter screams and sets the animal free. Bones snap, hearts grow. They are on fire for what feels like forever. Raivas tries to stop his teeth from growing and splits his palms. Peter snaps at the rose petals. Amidst blood and shrieks, two wolves roll onto the grass.

They lie for a moment, stunned, and then they leap to their feet and start running. One with sandy hair, the other with pale blond. They go tumbling through the forest. Rolling together, pressing their noses into each other's fur. Soft hair spirals around them, straight into the mist. Along with the threads and the flaps of skin, all those human things that don't matter. What matters is the fire in their paws, the wetness of their noses. When Peter fends off a mountain lion and licks Raivas' wounds clean. When the stars are drawn perfectly in the lake and Peter goes bounding through them. Raivas gets pulled in by his ear. They lie on the shore, wet and shivering. Huddled in the darkness, warm breath on their faces, they fall asleep.

And in the morning, they awake. Naked and cold. So they'll run back to the castle, hand in hand, and fall onto the velvet bed. Leaves and dirt stuck to their skin. Scratches up and down their bodies. They'll clean each other's wounds and dream about their night as wolves. Eyes fluttering like leaves. Hands intertwined now and forever.


	94. Disorders

**A/N: Talk about randomness lol. Idk if I got any requests in this one, but I did quite a few pairings, so I'm sure there's one somebody likes haha. I just wanted to do some drabbles on disorders (all kinds, from mental disorders to eating disorders to sensory disorders, even some phobias, etc).**

**So just enjoy this odd conglomeration of drabbles, keep requesting, and please review :D.**

* * *

Theme#94: Disorders

Pairing: Multiple

**AmericaxFrance**

**Bulimia**

Francis doesn't make him dinner anymore. Why put good bread to waste? He'll slather on butter and force it down with a smile on his face. Then he'll throw it up later and swear that everything's ok.

At night, he is bread, flaking and crumbling beneath Francis. Can't you hold your own? Crust so brittle that he gasps and falls apart. He'll say, "You're hurting me."

Francis will say, "No wonder, I can feel your ribs." More than that. The dipping bones, curving hole that leads up to your lungs. Francis could cup the sternum if he wanted. Because this bread is soft and dying. Francis is slathered on, trying to make things right.

But it's not enough.

* * *

**EnglandxCanada**

**Nyctophobia (fear of the dark)**

Darkness is alive in Mattie's mind. It is evil and scary, great tentacles squirming in the shadows. When he sleeps next to Arthur, he is holding on tight. So tight that the fingerprints are white. The skin is red.

Arthur's awake, unable to breathe. Hands are tighter, colder than usual. Fear turns Mattie into a corpse.

Arthur says, "Don't worry, I've got you," and rolls into him. Holding him like a precious teddy bear. He tries to stop Mattie's shoulders from shaking. A kiss on his forehead. Soft as a leaf on a pillow. Leaves from the open window. It lets the moonlight in.

Mattie shivers and Arthur envelops him. Beneath the blankets, they are safe. For now.

* * *

**GermanyxAustria**

**OCD**

Touching Ludwig five times is how he starts his day. Roderich makes coffee, black and in the typical blue mug. He pours two inches of orange juice and never drinks it. He doesn't know why.

Ludwig goes for the glass and he shrieks, "No, don't touch it!"

Then he fixes his tie one, two, three times. Clean the chrome faucet until it shines. Ludwig comes up behind him, eyes like a wounded animal.

"No, not yet. I have to finish cleaning. This is just…careless."

When he's finished, bubbles swirling in the drain, he turns to Ludwig. First touch, the face. Always the cheek. Second, the neck. Third, the chest. Fourth, the crook of the elbow. Five…

* * *

**KoreaxJapan**

**Insomnia**

Sleeping comes for neither one. Im Yong watches Kiku from one side of the room. Kiku watches Im Yong from the other. The clock keeps ticking.

One, the lamps click on. Clap on. Clap off. They watch the bulbs flicker.

Two, the Internet turns off. Paying your bills is important.

Three, the shoes are on. A trip to the balcony and back.

Four, the shoes are off. Socked feet play footsie on the floor.

Five, stove is on. He makes kimchi for Kiku.

Six, they're turned off until Im Yong offers him a bite.

Seven, they're turned on and eating face. Being tired makes you crazy.

Eight, stove isn't off. Kiku rushes to save the house.

Nine, back to bed. Back to staring and watching and eating. Never sleeping all night long.

* * *

**BelarusxRussia**

**Congenital analgesia (inability to feel pain)**

Ivan cannot feel pain, so Nat never cries when she slams his fingers in the door. He comes of out his room, the fire roaring softly, to stare at her with pitying eyes.

He says, "Nat, look, I don't love you that way. I'm sorry."

Her eyes are full of fire. Roaring softly. She slams the door and cries because she never hears a scream. He just looks at his bruised fingers. So at night she becomes his needle and carves names in his chest. He never wakes up. The scars are crisscrossing. She likes to touch them in the dark, knowing every single one.

And in the morning, his fingers are still purple. That's all Nat has.

* * *

**ItalyxRomano**

**Synesthesia**

When Lovino looks at Feliciano, he sees a masterpiece. Colors thrown on a canvas by a genius. A pure genius. He sees them and tastes them on his tongue.

Auburn hair: rich hazelnut, maybe nutella spread on too thick. Honey stuck to the roof of your mouth. Cold and sweet. Hot and dripping. One of those sandwiches with whole wheat bread.

Amber eyes: Flowery, spicy. Like drinking some perfume that makes Lovino cough. He feels sick when he looks into those eyes.

White skin: fresh cheese scraped up with pieces of bread. Maybe some of that whole wheat kind.

Romano sees it all, auburn, amber, and white, and tastes them on his tongue. He can't help it, but he still looks away.


	95. Jewelry

**A/N: These are two old requests I never did ^^". My bad... Anyways, here they are. Not much else to say besides the fact that I am so close to finishing this challenge, it's awesome and sad at the same time.**

**Enjoy, keep requesting and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#95: Jewelry

**Guest's Request: 2P!FemEnglandx2P!America**

The cupcake necklace still tastes like metal in his mouth. No matter how much she talks about frosting that whips like leather. Sprinkles tinkling like chains. Frozen laughter touches the scars on his cheeks.

Alison is always frisky after baking. Classes full of idiots who sweat over the open flame make her sad. Whenever he sees her after five-fifteen, she is pulling at her hair. Awkward blue eyes aflame.

Creeping into his dorm room on all fours, she pulls him out of bed. Little Alison, looking like a teenaged candy striper, smiles with her shark teeth.

"I'm bored. Class sucks. All those dummies who can't tell a spatula from a frying pan."

"Why don't you drop it?"

"I can't! It's a required class…"

Allen shrugs. "Then don't drop it. Do whatever the hell you want."

She giggles from her toes up. "Well, darling, right now I want to do you. Shall we move to the bed?"

"No, dumbass. The floor is good enough for you."

"Ok, love."

Smiles make Allen angry. And she's smiling beneath his lips. Smiling when he rips her new belt off. The Joker grin when he snaps the panty lace with one hand, breaking bra straps with the other. The morning after, she always has to buy new clothes.

His fingers are wide and strong.

Under the bed, he hits his head a dozen times. Falling on her, body full of bricks, red mouth sucking neck.

One night, she is on a sugar high. Angel cake mixed with Disney's Alice in Wonderland turns her on. Way on. Jamming a knife into a toaster on. Melting and smoking. Turning the ceiling black.

Allen is frustrated by baseball. The catcher just can't catch right. Hitting the batter in the face with the ball is illegal for some stupid reason. Red hair oozing, he lets her lap up the shower water like a dog. Tiles are cold and hot. Shoved into the corner, dirty laundry in a room, she wraps her short legs around him. He screams into her pigtails.

They're lying on the floor, blocking the drain. Allen asks for a minute. So she stands up and lets the water rush over her. Washing the smell of chewing gum and cowhide away forever.

After baseball season is over, he can't get enough of her. Sucking on her cupcake necklace and hearing laughter in his right ear. Something so positively crazy, something so positively his. Nails driven deep inside a baseball bat, he digs his claws into her.

And when she makes him cupcakes he eats them. Sometimes eating them until he's sick. Then she'll lie on top of him and dig her toes into his stomach.

They're together through sucky classes and when he gets kicked off the baseball team. Now she's his catcher and she ain't half bad. School ends and they never once do it on the bed.

When she goes abroad to eat fine food in Italy she gives him the necklace.

Over Skype, she tells him to suck on the cupcake and pretend it's her. But it will always taste like metal. Until she comes back, it will always taste the same.

* * *

**Angleterre97's Request: FrancexUK**

**Song: Feels Like Love by Danger Danger**

_Sometimes it hurts like hell  
Sometimes you just can't tell  
This time it feels like love to me- Danger Danger_

Wedding rings get tossed into the sink every Wednesday night. Francis' is white gold with a worn-out engraving on the inside, "Love is eternal". Arthur's, boring and typical. No need for explanation. Except for one thing, the small nick on the outside. His wife was angry after finding his books scattered all over the counter. A heavy volume full of Jane Austen hit his protective hand.

The neighborhood barbecue is full of children wearing tube socks and dogs rescued from animal shelters. Francis cooks the steaks nice and slow. Beneath clouds whiter than tube socks, the sky like dish soap, Arthur spins his Coke and watches the birds on the line. Standing there in his tie, Francis in blue suspenders. They never talk.

Arthur's wife is long-legged and glamorous. Minus all of the glitter and excitement. A martini that's been sitting in the sun for too long.

Francis' wife is sexy and artistic. Her white dresses are just short enough, her bras just small enough. Reading romance novels is her favorite pastime.

After the plastic people leave, Francis and Arthur shake hands. Good, respectable neighbors. Nails in his palm, Arthur is dragged away by Miss Martini.

Little Miss White Dress pulls Francis through the double doors and begs him to invite the pool boy inside. She's always wanted to do it with two people at once.

She ends up crying in the bathroom, alone. Francis makes himself a bowl of red velvet ice cream.

Arthur is pushed around for not doing the laundry on time. It's evening and she wants to go out with friends. But her dress is still wet, stupid husband. Fingernails make red marks on his cheek.

The picture falls off the wall when she leaves. It was crooked anyways.

Francis arrives when the sprinklers turn on. Soaking wet, he tackles Arthur, scooping him up like red velvet ice cream. The tears are heavy and taste dry.

"She hit you again?"

"It doesn't matter…"

"You're talking stupid again. Give me the ring."

The bedroom is cold. Arthur usually sleeps on the couch. But tonight, sheets will be warmed and soaked through when Francis tosses his clothes on the comforter. He throws the rings into the sink, careful to close the drain.

Bodies meet cold Egyptian cotton. Kissing hard before reality comes back home.

Good, respectable neighbors.

Their rings can spin and spin and fall into the pipes for all they care. Drinking dry martinis gets old. Speaking without words is frustrating.

Ties and blue suspenders tangle on the carpet. Wedding rings soak in lukewarm water.

Just like their lives.

But tonight, they can be freezing hot or burning cold. Until the plastic sun rises in the dish soap sky.


	96. Objects

**A/N: Two more requests I totally forgot about ^^". Each of these drabbles is written from the point of view of an inanimate object. See if you can guess each one, they're pretty easy.**

**Just a few more to go! I will try my best to fit even more requests into each chapter, so you can still request if you want. Enjoy, request, and please review :). **

* * *

Theme#96: Objects

Pairing: Multiple

**Ayumi Kudou: SwitzerlandxUkraine**

I love the way she squeezes me in between her thighs. When she's sleeping, all curled up like a baby squirrel. Or when she's with Basch in the middle of the night and she's sweating and he's sweating and the motion sensor lights are bursting onto the driveway. Then Basch has to get up, peeling away from her, gauze soaked in alcohol, and check just in case. It's usually just a raccoon. He comes back in, diving at her. Beautiful Katyusha, her platinum hair stuck to skin. All pancakey and syrupy.

One time, they had breakfast in bed and dropped eggs all over the sheets. I was covered in maple syrup. But I didn't mind. She used me to hit him over the head. His hair is blond and soft.

They fight for real sometimes. Ripped curtains, perfume pooling on the floor. Kat on the edge of the bed, holding me against her. Tear stains small and dark. Basch tries to hold her hand but she pushes him away.

Other times, they are happy and laughing. Peanut butter sandwiches and Leave it to Beaver reruns. Kat on the edge of the bed, using me to lean against him. Notes hummed softly. They lie on the comforter with their shoes on and fall asleep before the episode ends.

Saturday nights, they are drunk. Panties bunched up in his hand, fistfuls of hair in her fingers. Kat on the edge of the bed, biting me. Champagne smelling sweet. Paintings are scratched by unsuspecting fingernails. Oh well, they weren't that expensive anyway.

Once a week, I am gone. Round and round the washing machine. Into the dryer. They dress me in a new case and I am ready for anything.

Tonight I am under her back. She is seven months along. I'm here for her, to make her feel better. Basch lies next to her after work. Dirt from the construction site on his fingertips. He rubs her back, her neck, her feet. And then they fall asleep together.

I hope I am still here when the baby arrives. Then they can put her on me and I'll keep her warm and safe.

After all, that's my job. To keep them all warm.

* * *

**Irish Maid: SpainxBelgium**

His lips are warm against me. Dragged out of sleep by a mistaken alarm clock. He always sets it wrong. Pours black coffee into me, stirring in the packets of sugar. Now it's just, would you like some coffee with that sugar? The spoon stands up straight.

Her lips are burning hot against me. She just got out of the shower. Always taking them too hot, turning so red that Antonio calls her a lobster. Pretty blonde hair is up in a towel. Green tea fills me up. No sugar, just bitter and tasting like purification.

Dishwashers always feel cold. No matter how hot the water gets, I am freezing. Human touch is so much better.

His lips are bloody against me. Accidentally provoking an officemate can result in bad things. The bleeding won't stop. Ice cold water all over. It turns red after a while and he throws it all out. I am tossed into the sink.

Her lips are chapped against me. Gardening all day in the hot sun. She notices the marks that look like lipstick. She'll talk to Antonio later. I get washed by hand. How nice. Shiny enough so she can see her face, she puts me in the cabinet.

His lips are wet against me. Taking a break from the heat of the bedroom. He's sloppy and spilling water on the floor. Laura is never like this. Wearing her bustier and lace thong, waiting for him on the bed. His lips tremble. I'm accidentally brought into the bedroom. They use me to hold their jewelry. Their wedding rings, Laura's gold anklet and Antonio's crucifix.

Lips are lips. They change and grow fuller with life. But then you get sick and they shrink. Hopefully filling out again. They're painted and busted and stained with tomato juice. I feel them all. Sometimes teeth touching because she's thinking and smiling. Sometimes tongue running because he's hungover and tired. Turned upside down, hanging from the hook, stuck in the pantry. And when I chip, he glues me back together. No matter what.


	97. Fluff

**A/N: Like the title of this chapter indicates, this is just a bunch of fluff. 20 pairings, each one 50 words exactly! Tell me which one you liked most and which pairing you pictured for the last one.**

**Enjoy the fluffiness and please review :).**

* * *

Theme#97: Fluff

Pairings: Multiple

**Picnic**

**TurkeyxGreece**

He blushes when Sadiq rubs the hummus off his chin. A picnic amongst the ruins with their shoes off, playing footsie. Angrily, then softer and softer until each toe interlocks. Sadiq blushes too, Heracles nodding off against his shoulder. Off like a pair of shoes. One kisses the other's cheek.

**Hobbies**

**AustriaxSwitzerland**

Roderich tries to teach Basch the piano. Side by side on the bench, hands on top of each other. Roderich guides his fingers over ivory. But Basch is frustrated and cursing under his breath. Turning to Roderich, breathing heavy, he fogs the glasses. Faces closer than notes on a scale.

**Sport**

**AmericaxJapan**

Running to third base, Alfred trips him up. Kiku's sprawled across him, nose on glasses, glove on…he blushes and moves his hand. Alfred has such a carefree laugh. He realigns Kiku's crooked hat and rubs the clay off with a licked finger. A mischievous smile. Dirty knees. "You ok, player?"

**Dancing**

**EnglandxBelgium**

Laura knew dance class was a bad idea. Having Arthur as a partner results in stubbed toes and messy falls. His rhythm equals nothing. But when he catches her, that one rare time, he holds her tight and she blushes. She elbows him and little tears prick at his eyes.

**Holiday (AKA a vacation)**

**FrancexSeychelles**

Michelle won't take off her bathing suit in front of Francis. It's the first time. What will he think? Is she too up-and-down? Too childish? Francis tugs at the T-shirt. Then at her pigtails. Sunburn on her cheeks, she takes it off and covers her eyes. Desperate hug, "You're perfect."

**Candles**

**TaiwanxChina**

In the middle of the night, Mei pokes him with unlit candles. The power's out. He shrugs and goes back to sleep. Another poke. Faces turning redder and redder. A…disagreement follows. Light the candles, it's too dark. But it's night. Do it. They huddle around one, trying to light it.

**Breakfast**

**SpainxRomano**

Lovi wants to make something special. Eggs cracked all over the floor. Only one made it into the pan. Stuttering, face down; he brings the tray to Antonio. Toes tapping, eyes wandering. Antonio smiles and laughs. Pulls at Lovi's apron. When he kisses Lovi, the taste of eggs is there.

**Dinner**

**RussiaxCanada**

Mattie sitting between his legs, Ivan proclaims that there will be no dinner tonight. Some downsides of living in the Arctic: hypothermia, lack of food, angry polar bears. Ivan holds Mattie tight, the polar bear sniffing curiously. Tighter, tighter. No one eats his little maple leaf. No one but him.

**Blankets**

**KoreaxJapan**

Im Yong loves Kiku's kotatsu. Even in summer heat, he sits beneath it and sighs. Together, they eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Kiku brings the bowls to the table. After a bag or two of M&M's, he is inevitably dragged beneath the warm blankets. Straight-faced as blushing as they snuggle.

**Protection**

**AmericaxCanada**

Alfred always has Mathew's back in Call of Duty. In co-op Lego Star Wars, he keeps Matthew from getting hit. In Harvest Moon, he shows Matthew how to marry the girl he wants. In real life, he protects Matthew from bullies. Puts ice on his bruises. "I'll always protect you."

**Bath**

**EnglandxJapan**

Arthur will never understand Japanese bathing. Why they do it in these strange rooms, why he is now required to sit in this tiny tub, right next to Kiku. Chin on his knees, he prays that the bubbles hold up. Kiku's popping them, unaware. Pops one on Arthur's nose, smiling.

**Massage**

**AmericaxEngland**

After a long day at the office, it is nice to come home to this. Alfred's elbow in his shoulder blade, Alfred's knee in his back. All of Alfred here to relax him. Blushing. Arthur tries to stop himself from gasping. Maybe the hot stones are a little too much.

**Hurt**

**RomanoxBelgium**

Having a crush on your school nurse sucks. Lovino walks in, lip busted open in another fight. Laura is all smiles and sad eyes. Shoulder pat, a trip to his usual spot. She thinks he is overheating because his face is so red. Bandage on and he wants to die.

**Nightmare**

**FrancexCanada**

Rollercoasters are one of Mattie's many worst nightmares. Strapped in, feet dangling. He reaches for Francis but their hands can't touch. Stupid harness. Stretching harder, farther, finally touching that knuckle with his pinky. Feeling safe even though he can't see that grinning face. Now if only their feet would touch.

**Home**

**NorwayxIceland**

Emil and Lukas feel right at home. Skating around the rink, scarves tucked around their faces. It's just like during winter, when the lakes freeze and they go ice fishing. Holding hands, mittens soft, earmuffs in the shape of puffins. They try not to smile. But it happens. Always, always.

**Mistletoe**

**Kalina: GermanyxItaly**

Feliciano tapes it over their headboard even though it isn't Christmas. Ludwig wakes up, rolling his eyes and blushing all at once. Stiff as a board, he can't move. Feli giggles, brushing his curl over blond hair that's always messy in the morning. Red berries fall off, they both smile.

**Sunset**

**PrussiaxItaly**

Dreaming of the Italian sun for so long. Lying back in the sand and feeling water on his toes. Gil thanks Feli for a great day. Sand in between clasped hands, sand in their shorts and hair. The sun is the color of Feli's eyes. Smiles. Waves crash. They're drenched.

**Monopoly**

**Kalina: 2p!Englandx1p!Russia**

Some Monopoly games go on forever. Ivan is delirious, so annoyed he's smiling. Oliver laughs and throws the board into the air. Enough of this. He rolls into Ivan, wrapping the scarf around his face. It's his favorite part. Go to jail, pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

**Puppy/kitten**

**SwedenxFinland**

Bathing their little white puppy is an adventure. Berwald's covered I bubbles by the end. He blows them off, expressionless. A shake, water goes everywhere. Tino is soaked through. They turn on the blow dryer and soon it smells like lemon shampoo and fresh towels. Descends into bubble flavored kisses.

**Jealousy**

**Whichever pairing you want to imagine!**

One is touchy today, getting hurt every which way. Not sitting with them at lunch, forgetting to meet in the playground after school. What's going on? The other is just playing with someone else. No harm intended. One sulks away, crying, the other grabs their hand and smiles. Whispering, "Sorry."


	98. Complaints

**A/N: For **Demoness99 **hope you like it! I will finish this challenge this week, I know I will! So sad, yet so happy...idk I have mixed feelings about this collection ending. Anyways, enjoy and please review :).**

**Oh, and if you have any ideas for any future Hetalia fics you want me to write, just tell me. I'll need some ideas for the future.**

**Enjoy :D. **

* * *

Theme#98: Complaints

Pairing: EnglandxRussia, GermanyxItaly

What is desperation?

It's waiting in the bar on Thursday night, a strange night to go out drinking. But when you need it, you need it. Glass half-full of vodka. Melting ice cubes and the tingling in your fingers. Glass full of beer that drips down your hand.

It's waiting for someone to look at you. Knowing that they won't, feeling it in your gut. The way your stomach knots and your thighs catch fire.

It's waiting in the dark. Swallowed by fading blue lights and dreaming of another. Falling into REM sleep, dreaming deep tonight. Feeling warm, dripping like beer or vodka. Or both.

Because Arthur and Ivan both understand desperation. They go to the same bar on the same nights, and think about the same things at the same time. Arthur wants to feel Ludwig's gelled hair. Ivan wants to look into Feliciano's amber eyes.

Both of them are screwed.

Not by the people they like, by their circumstance. It isn't fair. How Ludwig holds Feli's face and gazes into those eyes. How Feli runs his hands through those blond strands. It isn't fair. It will never be fair. So Arthur and Ivan mope at the same bar and whine about the same things.

Tonight is Sunday tonight. An odd night for a date. Ludwig takes Feli bowling, matching blue bowling balls and shiny shoes. They hold hands like an old married couple.

Arthur watches an old married couple on a television in the bar. It's some kind of movie. Something he doesn't care about. Ivan is there, too.

"So they're bowling tonight?"

"Yep. Sounds bloody boring if you ask me."

"Those ball return things are funny. I wonder what would happen if you got your hand stuck in one?"

"I feel like sticking my head in one right now."

"Oh you're funny, too. You would look weird, without a head."

"Thanks, Ivan."

"No problem."

They lapse into silence. A couple of sips. Beer drips down Arthur's chin. Ivan sees it and wipes it off for no reason.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"Nothing. I just saw it."

"Whatever."

They start complaining. It's their weekly ritual. Talking about why Ludwig only goes for innocent types. How he's obsessed with the naïve and stupid. Arthur's smart and won't run away from a fight. So that's why Ludwig doesn't love him? Feli likes protectors, people who are tough and awkward. Ivan is scary but sweet. Like eating a Sour Patch Kid. Maybe that's why Feli doesn't love him? Because he's a Sour Patch Kid…sure.

And Arthur is a Milky Way. Getting stuck in your teeth, kinda boring, kinda sad.

"Ludwig should want someone like him, you know? Someone serious, intelligent…"

"But opposites attract, Arthur."

"But not that opposite. Good Lord, Ivan, you can't put two people who are so…so different together. It shouldn't work. He's just confused, doesn't know what he wants."

"And Feli is confused, too, huh?"

"They're both confused."

"And now they're confused together."

"Yeah…"

Some more silence. Another gulp, another trickle of beer. Ivan wipes it off again without thinking.

"Stop doing that, you git."

"Sorry, I just…"

Arthur sighs and stands up, slamming his beer down. "I'm going to the toilet. Just…stay where you are."

The bathroom is grey and smells like cleaning supplies. Plastic flowers in a plastic vase, what a waste. Arthur looks at his reflection. Smudged, imperfect. No wonder Ludwig doesn't love him, just look at that face…

"Arthur?"

He rolls his eyes. "I thought I told you to stay at the bar, Ivan. Just leave me alone."

"Arthur." The way he says the name, soft and sticky. Because he happens to love Milky Ways. A lot. A few steps echoing, a few steps away from desperation. He walks up to Arthur, saying nothing, and kisses him. Taste of beer and vodka mingling. Breathing in the cigarettes and hot tea. The sunflower seeds and warm blood. The scents of each other.

Arthur's favorite candy is Sour Patch Kids, he just remembered. At first, he grimaces, it's too sour. Then he takes a breath and there's the sweet, flowing in. Maybe this is what he wanted all along. Not someone like him, someone different. They're up against the stall door. Feeling clothes and hair and faces and gazing into eyes that have never looked so alive.

Yeah, this is it. Who cares what Ludwig and Feli do?

This moment is for Arthur and Ivan. No one can take that away.


End file.
